


Go Sailing No More

by sunstarunicorn



Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [51]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Criminal Minds (US TV), Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, Missing Teammates, Mixed-Up Languages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22665097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: Saved by a mysterious wizard, Spike and Wordy are united in suspicion, but still divided in language.  Who is this wizard and why is he so intent on protecting Team One?  And who trapped them in the first place?  Unable to communicate, the two constables must trust the only person able to speak both their languages…
Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [51]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/538363
Comments: 48
Kudos: 20





	1. Searching the Slaughter House

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the fifty-first in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "Tower of Babel".
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_. I also do not own _Criminal Minds_ , which I've temporarily imported up north. I trust any _Criminal Minds_ fans have seen why I did a bit of mixing and matching of the FBI Agents – I break canon, that's what I do. *innocent author smile*

_Previously_

FBI Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner arched a dark brow at the man behind the desk, his expression skeptical. “Your top SWAT team _wants_ to work on our case?”

* * * * *

“Officer down,” Parker snapped.

* * * * *

“Don’t move!” Wordy yelled. “Put him down _now_!”

Spike’s body flew at him, followed by a flash of light, and a rusty tin can.

“Portkey!”

* * * * *

Gulping, Spike held out his smartphone, his other hand pointing first to the phone and then to his teammate.

The brunet took the phone, set the language back to English, then nodded in confirmation as he gave it back. Yes, he could read the writing.

Fear blazed across Spike’s face, his Adam’s apple bobbing at the force of his terrified gulp. His hand trembled and he nearly dropped the phone as he pointed to it and shook his head.

* * * * *

Wordy darted towards the open doorway, Spike right on his heels. About to steal a glance back, the brunet felt his power armlet pulse and his peripheral vision caught a flash of gray; instinct screamed and he rammed himself sideways into his teammate, hurtling them both to the ground. Spike struggled and Wordy hastily covered the other man’s mouth, craning his neck to see through the doorway.

Inferi. Wordy worked an incendiary grenade free from his belt, brought the grenade up, using his teeth to yank the pin out, then lobbed it into the next room. Fire boomed, echoing in the tiny area, and Inferi howled agony. Wordy turned his face away, focusing on his trembling, terrified teammate, and waited for the screaming to stop.

It took a very long time.

* * * * *

Greg went for his weapon. “SRU! Don’t move!” he yelled. His sidearm rose, snapping on target even as the wizard started to Disapparate again.

The gryphon snarled and Parker’s gun went off, striking the subject’s left shoulder.

“ _Bedyrene me! Astyre me thanonweard!_ ” Wind roared, whipping around the wizard, and then he was gone, leaving the Aurors in the dust and Greg at the mercy of a trio of death glares from the FBI agents.

_What have I done?_

* * * * *

He was injured, Wyrdig was injured – they’d both been stung by poisonous scorpions and Wyrdig was bleeding out from the Death Eater’s curse. Oh, yes, that was right: he was doing the same. Scéaþ closed his eyes in exhaustion and regret. They’d made it this far and they were just going to die here…meters from safety and freedom.

**“I’m sorry, guys,”** Scéaþ whispered. **“We tried, but it just wasn’t enough…”**

A sound drew him up and around.

A wand lifted.

Blackness took him.

* * * * *

_Now_

Sergeant Greg Parker stared determinedly at the ground, avoiding glares from both the wizards and the profilers. The officer worked his right hand, dismay welling up from his soul. He’d tried to go lethal on a subject with _hostages_. No attempt to negotiate or capture the subject, not even an attempt to switch to less lethal. He’d just gone straight for the subject’s _throat_. Like a _predator_ , a _gryphon_. Even now, his wild side was smugly content with the outcome, not seeming to _care_ that Spike and Wordy were still missing. Not seeming to care that they had no more Apparition trail to follow.

“Greg?”

Eddie. Shame shone in gryphon eyes as Parker lifted his head. His team leader inhaled sharply, taking the inhuman gaze in. Then he held out one hand, not saying anything.

He didn’t have to. Greg countered gryphon indignation with his own _fury_ at his feral half for influencing him and forcing his hand, and pulled his sidearm, briskly ejecting the magazine, racking the slide to remove the chambered round, and passing both gun and magazine to his team leader. Softly, he added, “You have command, Ed.”

“Copy.” Lane reassembled the weapon before stowing it, but didn’t move away. “Boss, we’re gonna find them.”

“How?” Self-disgust rang. “I just shot our best lead.”

“And maybe that gives Word and Spike the opening they need to get away,” Ed countered. “Don’t give up on ‘em, Boss.” Noting Parker’s sidelong glance at the infuriated profilers, the bald sniper snorted. “You’d think as good as they’re supposed to be, they’d have caught onto the magic before _we_ did.”

“That’s not fair, Ed; they get treated the way _we_ were that first year,” Greg scolded gently. “They know about magic, yes, but only generalities, I’m sure.”

“So everyone else gets a blind spot except _you_?”

Parker flinched at the question, his gaze shifting downwards again. “I should have this under control by now,” he whispered.

“And Word should be a wizard,” Ed retorted. “But he’s not and that’s the first time you’ve lost control in _months_.”

“Got something,” Simmons called, drawing both men around. The Senior Auror’s expression was a curious mix the negotiator couldn’t quite read, but the determination was evident.

“A lead?” Agent Rossi inquired.

“Yes,” the blond confirmed. “Possible location, from a very reliable source.”

“A source.” Agent Hotchner was skeptical, something Parker understood. They were dealing with a lone serial killer that hadn’t even been positively identified yet. How in the world did Simmons have a ‘source’?

The Auror ignored the skepticism in favor of turning to his men. “Okay, you lot, one more jump!” he roared. “Let’s bring our people home!”

* * * * *

Ed Lane’s grimace had nothing – very little – okay, maybe more than a little – to do with his umpteenth Side-Along Apparition of the day. It didn’t make _sense_. How could his boss go from firm, solid control over his wild side to virtually _no_ control? Shouldn’t it have been the other way ‘round? And more than that, why would Greg’s wild side disregard the threat to Spike and Wordy in favor of revenge? Aside from those first few minutes in McKean, the gryphon had steadfastly _protected_ Team One – why stop now?

The acting Sergeant glanced up at where they’d arrived, his frown deepening. _Technically_ , the rundown building in front of them was magic-side. On the other hand, it was an old factory of some kind and the sniper was pretty sure wizard factories were few and far between. “What’s the story here?” he asked.

One of Simmons’ wizards grunted. “Twenty years ago, all this was Muggle,” he replied. “When the Muggles moved out, a couple entrepreneurs moved in. They were able to fix up most of the area, but a few buildings never got renovated.”

“So they’re just abandoned?” Lou inquired, head cocking to the side.

The wizard shrugged. “Don’t know; been awhile since I had a case out this way.”

Rossi arched a brow. “Where was your case, Auror?”

After a minute of thinking, the Auror pointed south. “Three factories that way, I think. I got called in about a month before the wards went up around the area – a couple Muggle gang members broke in and started making Muggle potions.”

“Drugs,” Sam put in, translating for the confused profilers. “Meth?”

“How should I know?” the Auror snipped. “We ran them off, got Muggle-Repelling Charms on all the buildings until the wards went up and that was the end of it.”

“Unlikely to be related,” Hotchner mused.

“Got a door here, guys,” Jules called; the brunette constable had scouted for a way into the factory while her now chagrined colleagues debated ancient history.

“Rookie.”

“Yes, sir,” Onasi said, already moving forward with his wand up. Jules moved sideways to let the Auror scan for any magical booby traps, pulling her sidearm as she moved. Her teammates and the profilers followed suit; the wizards drew their wands, most of them already shifting to be behind their techie colleagues.

The profilers looked unhappy at being in front, but Ed knew better. Put a wizard in front of a techie and you’d be jostling for a shot and praying you didn’t hit your own ally. But put that same wizard _behind_ a techie and watch the baddies flail against a two-pronged attack they weren’t equipped to counter. Eventually, the sniper knew, the criminals would smarten up and figure out how to handle techie Aurors, but for now…hunting season was open and very, very good.

Just inside the door, Onasi and Roy halted, both men freezing at the sight in front of them. Then the detective ducked back as his partner cast a shield; the magic shimmered as it flexed into a visible barrier. “Sir! Scorpions!”

Simmons swore. “Nasty buggers,” he growled. “You good, rookie?”

“Fine, sir.”

With a nod, the blond waved his men forward. “Reverse Bubble-Head Charms,” he ordered. “Rookie’s got ‘em contained on this side; Indra, get a barrier up on the other side! The rest of you, pick your targets and call ‘em out.”

Team One fell back, pulling the profilers with them while the wizards dealt with the scorpions. Roy stayed where he was, gun at the ready, unwilling to accidentally get in the way. Ed used the brief interlude to pair his teammates up, leaving only himself as ‘free-range’. He paired his boss with Sam, trusting the ex-military sniper to keep Sarge’s feral side under control. Lou and Jules slid together at a brief glance, the brunette giving him a thumbs up. She would keep Lou’s spirits up in his best friend’s absence.

The three profilers grouped together, wary and ready for action. Ed met Hotchner’s gaze, arching one brow in silent inquiry; the FBI agent frowned in Parker’s direction, but inclined his head. Ready.

Lane shifted back toward the factory door, shoulders tensing and breathing slowing as the sniper prepped for action. In the doorway, Simmons barked orders, directing the battle against the scorpions with as much intensity as if he was fighting human opponents. Giles’ barrier flared as a stinger lashed it, but otherwise gleamed a steady translucent, opaque hue. Roy was in a half-crouch, out of the way and gun drawn should any of the scorpions somehow make it through his partner’s defense.

It took over five minutes, but Simmons finally gestured his techie colleagues closer, reorganizing his wizards with a curt, “Form up.” The profilers managed to hang back, but Ed didn’t care. If they wanted to cripple their own lines of fire, that was _not_ his problem. Simmons closed with the acting Sergeant, wand at the ready as he and Lane led the way into the factory, past a score of dead scorpions.

“Stairs,” the wizard grunted.

“I see ‘em,” Ed breathed. “Let’s clear this room by room.”

A sharp nod.

Slowly, carefully, the Aurors moved, covering each other with gun and wand. The bald Auror scowled at the sight of a metal autopsy table, slick with fresh gore. The images his imagination presented him with were…grotesque. If that had been used for _living_ victims…he shuddered.

“Man down,” Lou called, drawing his superiors’ eyes to a sight just a meter or so past the table. Jules grimaced, but hung close as Young covered the distance between himself and the fallen man in seconds. Ed, looking closer, swallowed hard. The dead man lay in a pool of blood, livid bruising standing out around his neck; his left shoulder had been torn apart by…something. His wand was still clutched in the other hand, in a death grip. He had not died easily, that much was plain.

“That’s our subject.” The Boss’s voice was toneless, his expression impossible to read as he joined his constables around the fallen man.

Ed’s jaw dropped, accented by Sam’s incredulous, “ _Your_ gun did that, Boss?”

Remorse and sorrow gazed back at them. “The round was…enhanced.”

Translation: Greg’s magic had imparted its own blow to the subject, a fact that significantly heightened the team leader’s concerns over his boss’s magical control. However… The sniper stepped closer, frown reappearing as he looked the dead man over again. “You didn’t choke him.”

Hazel lightened in surprise; Parker swiveled back, eyebrows reaching for a long absent hairline. “No, I didn’t,” he agreed softly.

“So who did?” Lou wondered aloud.

“And where are Spike and Wordy?” Jules interjected. “If this is our subject, then this has _got_ to be our location.”

The team leader snapped around, but Simmons shook his head. “No one here but us, Lane. Indra checked. He picked up their magical signatures, but they’re not here anymore.”

Both the SRU cops and the profilers gawked, the latter astonished that _No-Maj_ Aurors had magical signatures and the former shocked that _Spike_ had a magical signature. Ed noticed his boss’s eyes narrow thoughtfully, but the Sergeant didn’t voice his suspicions. Instead, he turned back to the dead subject and studied the bruising, sorrow flashing across his face.

“Sir!” Heads came around as another member of Simmons’ squad appeared, his face pale. “I found something.”

* * * * *

‘Something’ turned out to be an elaborate surveillance setup. Over a dozen magical mirrors, all connected to a Pensieve with some sort of spell to capture the images in artificial memories. The mirrors displayed different areas of the factory, most with deadly traps, one with scorch marks, and one with a pack of dead dogs.

“Crups,” Nathan spat, the word itself voiced like a curse.

“Crups?” Agent Gideon asked lightly.

A pale Onasi filled in the details. “Wizard-bred magical dogs, sir. You need a license to have them in techie areas ‘cause they’ll,” he gulped, “…they’ll attack techies.”

“Muggles,” Simmons tacked on at the puzzled expressions from the profilers.

“Giles?” The Aurors and profilers turned towards Jules as she examined the Pensieve, her expression thoughtful. “Can we watch this?”

The brunet cocked his head to the side, stepping closer to the stone basin. “I don’t _think_ so…”

“You can, sir,” the Auror who’d found the room piped up. He tapped a sequence of glowing runes and the mirrors lit up.

Greg swung back to the mirrors, then stiffened. “There.” His colleagues followed his point to one of the mirrors, where two _familiar_ forms had just appeared out of thin air. “Stop it,” the Sergeant ordered; startled, the young Auror obeyed. Hazel shifted to Young. “Lou, can we record this?”

“Sure, Sarge,” the tan-skinned constable acknowledged. “I’ll go get a camera.”

“Grab ‘em all,” Ed countered. “Let’s see if we can get one on each mirror.”

“Copy.”

* * * * *

Greg focused on helping Lou set the cameras up, forcing his mind away from the dead subject in the next room. The forensic Aurors had been called to catalog the gruesome scene, but the Sergeant had a feeling they were about to find out _exactly_ what had happened inside this…horror house.

“Done,” Lou announced, setting the last camera’s focus. “I’ve got them slaved together; if one starts recording, they all will.”

“We could pass it off as surveillance footage,” Agent Rossi suggested. “Get a wider read on this.”

“Let’s watch it first,” Onasi countered softly.

Though Greg agreed, he dreaded the experience. The wards had blocked his ability to sense his constables’ emotions – a mercy, he now suspected. But he had to watch, _had_ to know what his men were going to be dealing with for the foreseeable future. And so, when Ed glanced over at him, question clear, Parker inclined his head.

At first, as they focused on the first mirror, it wasn’t that bad; Wordy checking his unconscious, injured teammate over and securing their position as best he could. The oddities started when Spike regained consciousness. Greg kept his expression utterly still as the two constables struggled to communicate. Why were they struggling? Both Spike and Wordy’s sentences were clear, easy to comprehend.

“What’s Spike saying?” Lou asked.

Giles shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s not Latin.”

“Not Italian either,” the tan-skinned constable muttered.

The negotiator didn’t permit so much as a twitch as he leaned forward, watching Spike’s mouth move. His team was right; it _wasn’t_ English, Italian, or Latin. So what language _was_ the bomb tech speaking? And how was he able to understand a language he’d never even _heard_ before?

Despite the language barrier, Wordy and Spike were still teammates – they managed, in fairly short order, to jury-rig a way to ‘talk’; Greg beamed proudly and Eddie nodded approval from his position at his boss’s shoulder.

The watchers winced at the room of broken glass, but it wasn’t much of a trap. Greg eyed the next three mirrors, wondering why the first two were showing an empty corridor and the last had an overhead wide-angle shot of three visible traps. Spike’s yell for Wordy to run made him jump; the deadly wall of spikes drew gasps and several explicit swears from Eddie and Lewis.

What followed was, in the Sergeant’s opinion, nothing less than a horror movie as his constables struggled past traps that still bore the stains of prior victims and fought desperately to survive. Eliminated a room full of Inferi and took on a feral pack of Crups. And just when it seemed they’d made it, the scorpions and their master descended to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

On the final mirror, Spike’s screams rang in their ears as Wordy’s form blazed blue and he rolled to his feet, lunging at the subject with a snarl of inhuman fury. Giles gasped softly and Parker knew why. Wordy had just used his magic with no visible signs of pain. Had just broken a _body-bind_ with nothing more than raw power from a Squib-sized – and crippled – magical core. Greg felt tears prickle as his gentle giant of a constable choked the life out of his opponent, taking a brutal Cutting Curse to the chest as he did so. A monster their subject might have been, but this was going to hit Wordy like a sledgehammer. Even though he’d only killed to save his life. To save Spike’s life.

Parker himself still had nightmares from McKean. He’d lost count of how many times he’d woken in a cold sweat, re-living his kills at McKean Magical Prison – and never mind that he’d been mentally incapacitated or that he’d _saved_ his team by killing their attackers. He’d _never_ wanted _any_ of his teammates to live with similar nightmares. _Never_.

The tears trickled down unnoticed as the gravely injured constable staggered to his teammate’s side and broke the second body-bind with the last of his strength. At the edge of the mirror a new figure appeared. Furious growls and hisses rang out as the figure knocked Spike out and disappeared with both constables.

“Back that up,” Ed ordered.

“Ed, I got it,” Lou intervened, his voice intense. “I’ll get this back to the truck and clean the images up, see if I can ID our new subject.”

Parker lifted a hand, stilling his team’s movements. “Lou, swap out all the memory cards for new ones.” He gestured towards the Pensieve. “He didn’t set this up for Spike and Wordy.”

“There are more,” Jules breathed in horror.

“At least fifteen,” Agent Hotchner rumbled.

Greg nodded once. “Lou, can you put the camera angles together? Make it look like one video?”

“Sure thing, Boss.”

Simmons turned his attention to the Pensieve. “Lot more than sixteen memories in here,” he observed sourly. “I can get the next one set up.” He glanced up and around. “This might take a while.”

The Auror Sergeant met his colleague’s gaze. “Then let’s get started.”


	2. The Translator is a Traitor

Scéaþ groaned softly as his eyelids flickered open, showing nothing but a blur of…something. After a few moments, the blurriness resolved into a cream wall about a meter away from him. The skin on his chest itched, but the burning pain in his blood and the searing agony from the aborted ‘autopsy’ were gone. Blinking, the bomb tech rolled over, squinting in the glow of overhead crystal light.

The room was simple: cream walls, two beds, a fully loaded bookcase against the far wall, and an extra wide nightstand pulling double duty between the beds. The beds themselves were long beds, with tan sheets and blankets paired with white pillows. If not for the stuffed, sagging bookcase, Scéaþ would’ve called the room utilitarian.

He sat up, reflexively grimacing at the twinge from his chest. A glance down revealed the cause; magic curled around where the subject had been cutting him open. The damage was healing, but slowly, hence the stitch-like pull on his flesh. Morose, the constable regarded his uniform; dried blood and gore decorated his front while ash and cuts decorated his legs, intermixed with bluish Crup blood. His feet were bare, but the boots themselves sat against the wall past the foot of his bed, gleaming as if freshly washed, though his socks were nowhere to be seen. They’d probably been a lost cause.

Gingerly, Scéaþ peeled his uniform top off, wincing anew at the objections from his chest and the blood spotting his white undershirt. Concern nudged at him; he was alone and had no idea where his partner was. The raven reminded himself that he couldn’t help Wyrdig if he didn’t help himself first and continued to take inventory. His sidearm was missing, but when he looked around, the weapon gleamed from its spot on the nightstand, just as freshly cleaned as his boots. Cautiously hopeful, Scéaþ left the gun where it was, dark eyes inspecting the rest of the room for any more surprises.

The door opened, drawing an instant tense, and a man stepped inside, moving sideways before directing a floating figure through the doorway and over to the bed. Scéaþ’s eyes widened as his teammate was lowered down onto the bed, unconscious and barely even twitching. He scrambled off his bed and to Wyrdig’s side, glaring at the unknown wizard in accusation.

**“He’s fine,”** the wizard remarked, smiling at Scéaþ’s jump. **“He pushed his core too far, plus the poison and the gas my diagnostic says got in his lungs.”**

Scéaþ winced, recalling Wyrdig’s boneless collapse in the booby-trapped staircase. **“But he’ll be okay?”** the bomb tech asked anxiously.

A centimeter or so taller than Scéaþ himself, with forest brown hair that ended just past his shoulders and was a mess of ‘spikes’ all over, the wizard nodded. Blue eyes regarded Scéaþ’s hovering over his teammate with a touch of wistfulness before dropping to Wyrdig’s twin bracelets and lighting with curiosity. He stepped closer, running a finger over the mithril one. **“Curious, these runes. I’ve never seen their like before. Very elegant and well-done.”** He glanced up at Scéaþ. **“They are for healing?”**

Despite his double dose of relief at seeing his friend in one piece and finally talking to someone who _understood_ him, Scéaþ wasn’t about to explain the priceless, one-of-a-kind healing bracelet to a _stranger_. Wasn’t about to explain that _both_ bracelets were meant to keep Wyrdig’s shaking palsy in check. So he shook his head in refusal and stayed by his teammate, suspicion glowing.

A wry, sorrowful smile curved the wizard’s mouth. **“Are you hungry? I have a meal downstairs.”**

Starving, actually, but Scéaþ shook his head again, tension rising at the thought of leaving his newly ‘found’ teammate alone.

The smile grew sadder and the wizard inclined his head. **“I will return when he wakes, then.”** Without another word, he turned and left, closing the door behind him. Scéaþ remained by his teammate, determined to keep watch, but despite his growling stomach and awkward spot on the floor, it didn’t take long before sheer exhaustion pulled the constable down into slumber.

* * * * *

As soon as Wyrdig groaned and stirred, Scéaþ snapped awake, eyes darting around the room before they focused on his teammate. It took another few minutes before Wyrdig groaned again and opened his eyes. The big constable winced at the light in the room and immediately closed his eyes again, even bringing one arm up to protect his vision. Worried, Scéaþ gripped his partner’s wrist, earning him a startled yelp and wide gray eyes as Wyrdig snapped upright and around.

“Wyrdig?”

A soft, pained pant. “Hey, Spike,” Wyrdig whispered, hunching over. “How you doing?”

Wishing, bitterly, that he could _understand_ his teammate, Scéaþ opted to huddle close to his friend’s bed, watching anxiously as Wyrdig’s pants lengthened into semi-regular breathing. He was shivering and paler than normal, dark circles of exhaustion and stress under his eyes. Twin grumbles rattled the air and the constables traded chagrined looks.

“Ah, good, I see you are both awake.”

Both men snapped around to see their host in the doorway, his expression amused. Scéaþ blinked once, then blinked again as the wizard wryly repeated himself in _his_ language. Delight perked the bomb tech up. If the wizard could speak _both_ languages, he could _translate_. Help Scéaþ _really_ talk to Wyrdig, not guess, as best he could, what Wyrdig was trying to communicate using their combat hand signals.

Wyrdig glanced between the two men, divining the same thing Scéaþ had, but he didn’t appear nearly as enthused as the bomb tech. Instead his expression was skeptical and more than a touch wary. When Scéaþ glanced up at his teammate, confusion plain, Wyrdig indicated his ear and chopped a hand across his throat.

The lithe constable froze. Compromised comms? But they couldn’t talk any way… His head drooped as he put the pieces together. They didn’t know this wizard, had no idea if they could _trust_ their host – they certainly couldn’t be _completely_ sure that he would translate correctly.

Caution gleamed in dark eyes as Scéaþ looked up at their host. He glanced between them, confused, then his gaze cleared in unhappy understanding. **“You do not trust me.”**

Scéaþ shook his head and Wyrdig followed suit seconds later as their host repeated himself in Wyrdig’s language.

A flash of sorrow and resignation ran across the wizard’s face, then he shook his head, sighing to himself. “Will you at least let me check your magical core, Constable?”

The bomb tech tilted his head, puzzled, then watched as Wyrdig nodded once.

With a flourish, the wizard drew his wand and stepped closer to the beds, casting a diagnostic spell. Light cascaded around Wyrdig for a minute, then flew over to hover in front of their host. He frowned, flicking his wand to make the results rotate and scrutinizing several dark areas. The wand snapped, turning the shimmering light once more. After several minutes, the dark-haired man glanced up at his watching guests.

“You’ve strained your core badly, Constable,” he scolded, though there was no heat in his voice; Wyrdig reddened. “No more magic for at least a week.”

“Or?” the embarrassed constable challenged.

“You could cripple your core.”

One eyebrow arched. “It’s already crippled,” Wyrdig pointed out dryly; Scéaþ observed in bewilderment since their host wasn’t translating.

Amusement glinted in blue eyes. “No, it’s not, Constable.” A wave of the wand rotated the diagnostic results. “I can see some old scars, but if your core was crippled, you wouldn’t have been able to break _one_ body-bind, much less two.”

“I’ve been able to use my magic before.”

The wizard snorted. “For something extremely small, I’d wager.” His wand tip indicated the darker areas. “You’ve drained your magic dry and your core is pulling on its foundations. Any more magic use will overstress the weaker areas and cause new cracks.”

Wyrdig flushed and nodded acceptance. “Anything else?”

Their host grunted, then explained, first in English, then in Scéaþ’s still unknown language. **“The scorpion poison is almost out of your systems. You’ll need one more dose of antivenin each, then you should be fine. Fortunately, neither of you got bitten by the Crups, but that gas did a number on your lungs.”** He ran a hand through his hair, sighing to himself. **“You’ll have to stay here until your teammates find you.”**

**“What? Why?”** Scéaþ demanded; Wyrdig glared but held his silence.

**“Your suspect was a Neo Death Eater,”** came the blunt reply. **“And a fairly rich one at that. Better to keep your heads down until you’ve healed up and have your friends at your backs again.”**

Though neither man was pleased with the wizard’s declaration, they weren’t in any position to protest. Scéaþ fidgeted, feeling the pull of healing flesh and seeing Wyrdig’s bone-deep exhaustion. A flicker of an idea shot through him. Turning towards the wizard, he asked, **“Can you get rid of the curse he cast on me?”**

A blue gaze darted between the two officers and the wizard licked his lips, but didn’t respond.

**“Please?”** Scéaþ pleaded, his dark eyes pools of hope and fear.

Their host shifted awkwardly and finally turned away without ever answering.

Ducking his head, Scéaþ trembled violently, jumping when Wyrdig touched his upper arm, worry and concern evident. Having gained the bomb tech’s attention, the brunet’s hands flew into a familiar combination. Connect, respect, protect. The gentle constable finished by pointing first to his teammate and then to himself.

“Spike, easy, it’s okay,” Wyrdig added aloud, not even casting a look at the wizard watching them. “We’re gonna get through this, you’re gonna be okay. I promise.” When their host cleared his throat and opened his mouth to translate, Wyrdig snapped, “You shut up. Come back when you feel like _helping_.”

After a long minute, the wizard turned and left the room, but Scéaþ saw the look in the other man’s eyes. Longing and jealousy. For what they _had_. And Scéaþ couldn’t help but wonder…what had the wizard lost? Or maybe the question was _who_ had the wizard lost?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have I mentioned how much I hate waiting? Ugh. As of this evening, I suspect I will have most (if not all) of my latest story written - mostly in the paper notebook that I drag to work because there is _nothing to do!_ Of course, then I really will have nothing to do because the next story on my list of stories to be written is an eppy twister that I really have to do totally on my computer due to my habit of using the episode dialogue. Double Ugh.
> 
> So, on Wednesday, we had a manager over by our little section telling us that the Pega Lead will be arriving Thursday and then we can actually start working. Whelp, Thursday came and went and about all that happened is that I finished one chapter and started on the final chapter of the latest story (which actually grew by a chapter during the course of being written). Frankly, the odds of this Pega Lead showing up on a _Friday_ is somewhere between zero and zilch, so...whatever. At least we will probably be able to take Monday off.
> 
> The worst of it all is, there's literally nothing I can do to change it. I can't get off this project (and even if I did, hello more waiting) and neither the managers nor the client company appear to be any hurry whatsoever. Honestly, right now I feel like I'm the middle of one giant bait-and-switch because I was about to be sent to a totally _different_ project (where I'd be working by now, I am sure) and instead I'm _here_! I know God is in control and I know all this whimpering and whining is probably a sin, but... Ugh... How much _longer_ do I have to _wait_?
> 
> /End Rant - and thank you for listening (reading)


	3. Following the Evidence

As the clock on the wall ticked past 2 AM, Lewis Young felt more numb than exhausted as he and Team Three’s bomb tech finished assembling the last of the raw recordings into ‘surveillance footage’. Behind them, Team Three’s backup tech was doing a last second polishing of the Spike/Wordy footage, enhancing it as much as possible. In the other room, Team Two and Team Four’s techs were finishing up four other tapes; they hadn’t asked questions, they’d just pitched in, determined to help their missing colleagues.

No one had breathed the word ‘magic’, but it hardly mattered. After Teams One and Three’s frantic scramble out of town to rescue the stranded upper ranks of the Canadian Auror Division, the cat had been out of the bag. Teams Two and Four hadn’t even blinked when a third of the barn was commandeered for the newly instated Toronto Auror Division; instead, they’d welcomed the new arrivals and gone out of their way to help get the area set up.

Ordinarily, having virtually all of the SRU’s techs working together would’ve brought a smug grin to Lou’s face; putting too many SRU computer techs in the same room was a recipe for smart remarks, bruised egos, and technical brawls of all descriptions. Not today. Today the less-lethal specialist was numb with shock, horror, and a slowly building sense of utter _fury_.

“How many does that make?” Team Three’s tech asked, rubbing at the dark circles under his eyes as he leaned back from his computer to snatch a quick breather.

“Thirty-eight,” Young replied. “Forty if you include our guys.”

“I would.” A sigh, a grimace, and a limp hair-swipe. “Even if you find ‘em alive, they’ve been through hell. And Wordsworth…” He trailed off helplessly.

“Clean hands,” Lou whispered, throat tightening. “Wordy’s always saying he’s gotta be able to go home and hug his girls with clean hands.”

A finger pointed in his direction. “Then you make him _believe_ he’s got clean hands. He didn’t have a choice. You know it, I know it, even those Fibbies know it.” One hand flapped and the other constable wearily forced himself to his feet. “Now get outta here, Young. I gotta make sure nobody screwed up my setup out there.”

Lou snickered and collected a thick stack of shiny discs. Humor vanished as he regarded them, wondering sourly if they’d ever identify all their dead subject’s victims. Even as a much bigger part of him wondered if he’d ever see his best friends alive again…

* * * * *

FBI Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid didn’t protest when an exhausted Gideon pushed a stack of discs in his direction. “What’s this, sir?”

His mentor looked _old_. “Each disc is a victim, Spencer,” he explained. “The last one is two.”

“Two?” Morgan asked, tone sharp. “They died?”

“No,” Hotch countered, regret and sorrow bubbling just behind his professional mask. “As far as we know, they’re alive, but they’re still missing.”

“And the unsub?” Prentiss inquired.

“Dead,” Rossi announced succinctly without elaborating. He pointed to the discs. “Watch those; you can share them with Garcia if you’d like. We need as much information as possible and we need to start identifying as many victims as we can.”

“Are these classified?” Reid asked.

“The same as any other investigation,” Hotch said flatly before disappearing towards his temporary office. Rossi sighed, paused long enough to squeeze Gideon’s shoulder, then went after the grim Unit Chief.

The younger profilers glanced up at their one remaining supervisor, questions plain. Gideon’s shoulders slumped. “Watch them,” he ordered softly. “Then you’ll understand.”

* * * * *

Understand. The young genius didn’t see how you _could_ ; how did you _understand_ dumping people in the middle of a maze of death traps? How did you _understand_ watching them struggle and flail to escape, ultimately dying to one trap or another? How did you _understand_ pure evil?

He turned away from the screen as one poor soul made it past the poison gas staircase only to die at the jaws and claws of the feral dog pack. It was completely _obscene_ , made even worse by the screams as the dogs bit into flesh already scored by the mechanical zombies their latest victim had somehow outrun.

“That’s thirty-six,” Emily Prentiss announced tonelessly. “Garcia, did you get a good shot of him?”

Their Quantico based computer tech was just as demoralized as her coworkers. “I got one from the glass room,” she replied. “I think we’ve gotten all our shots from there.”

“Three more discs,” Morgan grumbled, holding them up.

“At least we’re almost done.” Prentiss sighed and worked out the kinks in her back. “And can I say I’m glad Rossi told us the unsub didn’t make it?”

“You can say it to us,” Morgan reassured her.

“Babydoll is right,” Garcia agreed. “This guy was one serious sicko. Hope he didn’t have a friend.”

“No,” Reid replied absently. “The unsub might have enlisted help to set up either the surveillance or the traps, but all the other clues point to a single unsub. No accomplice.”

Prentiss inclined her head in agreement. “The profile pointed to a single unsub.”

“Once he had everything set up, he didn’t need help,” Morgan concurred.

Garcia hummed, not entirely convinced, but moved on. “What are they doing to the factory?”

Reid frowned. “I overheard Hotch and Rossi talking. Once Wordsworth and Scarlatti are found, the locals are planning on just burning it down. Keep anyone else from stumbling into the traps.”

“Good,” Garcia and Prentiss chorused in perfect sync despite being in different countries.

With a wan smile, Morgan pushed the next disc into his computer. “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, meet victim number thirty-seven.” When an eighteen-year-old girl appeared on the screen, there was a mandatory pause while half the junior profilers swore up a storm and other half headed for the closest bathroom to throw up.

* * * * *

Sighs of relief met the final disc; Prentiss double-checked her pen to ensure she still had ink, Reid straightened, his focus entirely on the screen, and Morgan adjusted his notebook, eager to see how the traps had been overcome by their last pair of victims. From her spot in Quantico, Garcia leaned towards her webcam, just as interested as her profiler coworkers.

The first scene drew puzzled frowns – two English speaking cops and one was suddenly _not_? Reid stole the laptop, backing the video up so he could watch again, nose pressed against the screen, as Scarlatti babbled in another language at Wordsworth and couldn’t even use his own phone.

“Reid?” Prentiss asked when their slender colleague backed the video up again.

“I can’t understand the language,” Reid replied.

Morgan whistled – as a certified genius with six degrees, three of them PhDs, what Spencer Reid didn’t know often wasn’t worth knowing. Although he wasn’t quite as proficient at languages… “Maybe it’s Spanish,” the African-American joked.

“No.” Reid didn’t even glance up. “The inflection is more like English, only it’s _not_.” Scowling, he ran the footage again, mumbling something indistinct under his breath.

“Okay, boy genius,” Morgan interceded. “You can try and figure it out while we watch the whole thing.” Spencer blinked, but allowed his coworker to gently remove the laptop from his grip and continue the playback.

The officers’ boots meant the glass room wasn’t an obstacle to them; the lack of embedded glass also rendered the moving spike wall largely moot. Unlike several previous victims, the two cops managed to reach the overhead bar without taking any sidelong hits from the whirling spike club, though Prentiss winced at the axe’s near-miss and Garcia let out a little scream.

Curiously, the two men had no trouble with the tightrope pit, quite literally _strolling_ across without a care in the world; Reid scribbled furiously on his clipboard. But it was the next room that broke the case wide-open. The floating specter, which had chased several previous victims right into the arms of the mechanical zombies, let out its usual babbling shriek.

“Stop.”

Morgan obeyed at once. “What’ve you got, Reid?”

“It’s the same language Scarlatti’s speaking.”

The other profilers traded wide eyes, but neither doubted Reid’s assertion. “Wait, it’s actually _talking_?” Prentiss asked.

“Like it’s not just crazy babble?” Garcia interjected.

“Yes,” Reid confirmed to both women, tapping his clipboard. “I thought it was babble, too, but it’s not. Several victims reacted to this, implying that they _also_ went from speaking English to…whatever this other language is.”

“You’ve got more.” Morgan’s expression was intent.

“Some.” Clearing his throat, Reid inspected his own writing. “They walked right across that rope, but Wordsworth went first and he had to encourage Scarlatti across. Why? Presumably they both know why they were able to get across so easily.”

All three of his colleagues pondered his observations for a minute, then Prentiss joked, “Maybe that’s _actually_ a ghost.”

Morgan rolled his eyes. “Come on,” he jabbed. “Next you’ll be telling me those are _real_ zombies.”

“Well _of course_ they are, babydoll,” Garcia countered. “Ghosts and zombies are the perfect accessories for your up and coming serial killer.”

“Let’s keep going.” Ignoring the banter, Reid tapped the play button.

Scarlatti reacted just like they’d half-expected, but Wordsworth spotted the trap ahead in the nick of time. Instead of trying to outrun the mechanical zombies as every previous victim had, he slammed Scarlatti sideways, knocking them both down, and even covered his mouth.

“What’s he _doing_?” Morgan wondered.

Then the constable pulled a _grenade_ from his belt, primed it _with his teeth_ , and tossed it into the next room. Shrieks of agony rattled the speakers and all four recoiled. The ghost, which all of them had believed to be some sort of projection, wailed genuine dismay and rocketed into the fire, vanishing without a trace.

In mute, horrified silence, they watched the rest. Saw two bracelets on Wordsworth’s wrist light up as gas poured into the poison staircase. Stared slack-jawed as Scarlatti hurled a second grenade at the feral dog pack and shot them all dead. Gawked when the next staircase morphed into a slide and dumped the pair into a pit of scorpions.

Prentiss let out a soft cry as their unsub started to _autopsy_ a living, terrified, screaming victim; in the background, Garcia’s mouth was wide in a silent scream of her own. Reid stared at the screen so intently, he was hardly breathing any more. When Wordsworth glowed blue, they all jumped, then jumped again when he attacked the unsub and the unsub fired a _spell_ at the courageous officer.

By the time the screen went black, they were convinced. Reid scrawled one word across the bottom of his clipboard and held it up.

Magic.

* * * * *

Somehow, Greg couldn’t muster the energy to feel surprised. The risk had been taken, the older profilers insistent that the videos, by _themselves_ , would not be enough to spill the secret. He’d been skeptical, but Ed, still in command, had agreed to let the younger profilers see _all_ the videos. Including Spike and Wordy’s.

Now he watched as the older profilers listened to their subordinates’ report, a report that included the profilers’ serious conclusion that _magic_ had been used to murder close to forty Toronto citizens. Fear shone in Agent Gideon’s eyes as he glanced over at the watching Aurors, fear that his subordinates would be _Obliviated_ and stripped of their memories. That same fear was echoed in Agents Hotchner and Rossi, though they hid it better.

As the report wound down, the younger agents picked up on the growing tension, glancing between their superiors and the Toronto officers in some confusion. Agent Reid opened his mouth, only to stop as Agent Gideon lifted a hand and looked directly at Onasi.

“Please.”

Plaintive and fearful, pleading and helpless; Parker winced and cleared his throat significantly. Eddie accepted his boss’s return to command with nary a whisper of protest. “Giles?”

The Auror’s shoulders slumped. “You know what Locksley said.”

He did; the Aurors were prohibited, until further notice, from using magic in techie areas, _no exceptions_ , a prohibition Giles had broken in hopes of saving his SRU colleagues. The Neo Death Eaters had complete control of the Canadian Ministry of Magic, _including_ the aptly-named Magical Surveillance Office. Within magical areas, there were simply too many witches and wizards using magic for the Neo Death Eaters to pick the ‘rogue’ Aurors out of a crowd, but in the tech world? As the saying went, they’d get caught in a New York minute.

With a brisk nod, the Sergeant turned towards Braddock.

“Get the forms,” Sam replied before his boss could speak and vanished toward the trucks. _Extremely_ skeptical that they could _hide_ the magic Wordy had used from the junior profilers, Greg had insisted on bringing the Official Secrets Act forms along. Thankfully, Eddie hadn’t argued, a fortunate decision given the turn of events.

“Forms?” Agent Rossi inquired.

No sense in hiding anything now. “Your agents will need to sign onto Canada’s Official Secrets Act if they wish to remain a part of this investigation.” He knew the older agents would translate that to mean ‘if they wish to keep their memories’, a misconception Parker did not intend to correct until _after_ the forms were safely signed.

Sam reappeared with the forms already mounted on clipboards. “Sarge, what about their computer tech?”

“I’ve got a copy of the form on my flash drive,” Lou offered. “She can sign digitally.”

“Lou, go set that up,” the negotiator ordered; his constable saluted, but remained where he was when Agent Rossi motioned for him to wait. Turning back towards the younger profilers, Parker asked, “Have you shared your conclusions with Agent Jareau?”

When Agent Reid looked confused and the other two appeared mulish, Agent Hotchner cleared his throat. “Did you tell JJ?” he demanded, his tone harsh with ill-concealed fear.

“Hotch?” Agent Reid questioned, glancing between his boss and the SRU cops. “What’s going on?”

Agent Gideon’s terror was palpable. “Spencer!”

“No, we haven’t told her yet,” Agent Morgan answered. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on is that you three and Garcia _will_ sign these forms, _now_ ,” Agent Hotchner ordered, seizing the clipboards from Sam so he could pass them out himself. “Morgan, once you’ve signed, get Garcia on the phone and have her give Constable Young her work email. Stay on the phone until she’s signed, understand?”

With the elder agents’ fear spreading to their younger counterparts, the junior profilers didn’t argue, though all three looked as though they _wanted_ to. In less than ten minutes, the Canadian Official Secrets Act had expanded by four American feds.

And Greg, once Jules had collected the clipboards and Agent Morgan had turned his phone’s speaker on, glanced over at Onasi and nodded once. Drawing a deep breath, the wizard stepped forward and drew his wand with a twirl. “I’d say magic is real,” he remarked wryly, “but you lot already figured that out.”

“You have magic,” Agent Morgan growled, backing up as if to protect his fellow agents. One hand edged towards his gun.

“Guilty as charged,” the brunet quipped. “ _Auror_ Giles Onasi, at your service.” Tilting his head at his coworkers, he added, “Meet the Canadian Auror Division’s first _Muggle_ Aurors. Or No-Maj if you like, seeing as you’re Americans.”

“Is Wordsworth a wizard, too?” Agent Prentiss asked.

“That would be the irony,” Giles replied. “ _Auror_ Wordsworth is a Squib.” At the gasps from the older profilers, he smirked mirthlessly. “I take it your bosses have heard of Squibs before.”

“Aren’t most Squibs murdered by their own families?” Agent Rossi questioned, ignoring the stunned expressions from his subordinates. “That’s what _I’ve_ always understood.”

“Not as much anymore,” Sam offered. “I’m Squib-born; my father is a Squib, too.” The blond squirmed, not willing to relate Wordy’s history to a group of _strangers_.

Parker intervened. “Wordy is a Squib, but he was raised completely tech-side. No member of my team, Wordy _included_ , knew about magic prior to my niece and nephew moving here from Britain.” His narrow-eyed glare kept any of them from asking about Sam’s past; he’d already told the older profilers anyway and the longer it took to get the junior profilers on board, the longer Wordy and Spike were in danger.

Giles cleared his throat, reclaiming attention. “Look,” he began, running a hand through his hair, “your bosses can tell you more later, including why they were so scared that you lot figured out magic’s real, but the _important_ thing is that Spike and Wordy knowing about magic saved their lives today.” His voice trembled. “All those other people never had a chance and the guy who killed them…he’s a _monster_ , no matter _which_ world you’re from.”

“How’d he get away with it?” Jules asked suddenly. “Giles, you can’t even summon a _paperclip_ tech-side without getting caught right now, so how’d he kidnap forty people without the Neo Death Eaters catching him?”

“Because he _is_ a Neo Death Eater,” Lou blurted. “They knew what he was doing and they didn’t care.”

Onasi hung his head; he’d figured it out roughly about the time they’d been looking at the Pensieve memories. “Yeah,” he whispered. “They knew his hunting ground, that’s how I got away with the detection spells.” At first he’d thought the nearby gateway had saved his tail – _their_ tails, but it hadn’t made sense…until it had.

Determination lit his eyes as he lifted them. “But if we go back to the factory, I think I might be able to track their magical signatures.”

“Wait…” Agent Reid interrupted. “If they don’t have magic…how do they have magical signatures? And what’s this about ‘Neo Death Eaters’?”

Onasi blanched and the beginnings of his smirk dropped off his face. “I, um…”

Lou saved him. “It’s complicated.”

“Yeah… That…” Giles agreed rather limply.


	4. What Do You Want From Us?

After their host left, Wordy spent some time trying to calm Spike down again. He didn’t know _exactly_ what the bomb tech had asked, but he had a sneaking suspicion… By the time the big constable got his teammate to stop panicking, his throbbing headache had morphed into a migraine. A contrite Spike, recognizing the signs, insisted, with several pointed hand gestures, that Wordy lay down and get some rest, even finding the off switch for the overhead crystal light.

The exhausted constable fell asleep to the light and sounds of Spike poking and prodding cautiously at his phone.

* * * * *

Several hours later, his stomach’s demand for food finally overcame his need for rest. Wordy blinked awake, wearily rubbing sleep detritus out of his eyes. Wary of exacerbating his still present headache – though it was no longer at migraine level, thank Aslan – the constable peered around, noting the lack of an electronic glow by Spike’s bed.

“Wyrdig? **You awake?”**

“Hey, Spike.” The brunet automatically kept his voice low as he regarded the raven bomb tech. In the dim shadowy grays of night vision, he saw his teammate gesture towards the light switch, a clear question on his face. Considering, Wordy nodded, but shielded his eyes as a precaution.

The light flickered on, but his headache didn’t protest. Carefully, bit by bit, Wordy lowered his arm, squinting at the brightness. Aside from an insistent grumble from his stomach, nothing happened.

“Hungry, I hope, gentlemen.” The cheerful tone preceded their mystery host as he returned, two loaded trays of food and water floating by his shoulder. The sight of food instantly perked Spike up, he grinned, his stomach audibly whining for the meal he could now smell.

Wordy, though, wasn’t nearly as excited; rather, he regarded the wizard with more than a touch of suspicion, wary tension radiating. The tension increased as the food trays marched past the wizard and drifted over the constables. Despite his stomach’s growl, he made no move to reach for the plastic fork and knife. Spike stilled his own reach, glancing between his teammate and their host in some confusion.

The wizard’s expression morphed to one of resignation. He flicked his wand, incanting a spell; the brunet recognized a common food detection spell he’d heard both Giles and Neal use. After a moment, white light glowed around both plates and the glasses; Wordy minutely relaxed and picked up the plastic utensils.

Both men dug into their meals, though the big constable noticed, with some confusion, that his portion was considerably larger than Spike’s. And judging by a few rather jealous glances, Spike had noted the same.

“Your healing bracelet is quite impressive.”

Wordy jumped, gray eyes darting up to the amused wizard now perched on a chair he must’ve conjured. A sparkle hinted at internal laughter, though the other man’s face remained solemn aside from a twitch of the jaw.

“But it does not change your condition.”

The big man swallowed. “My illness, you mean?”

A slow nod. “Unless I am mistaken, that bracelet keeps you in good health and ameliorates the worst of your symptoms, but it cannot _cure_ you.”

Though a shudder worked its way down Wordy’s back at the all-too-accurate synopsis, he held the wizard’s steady gaze, refusing to flinch.

One hand swept out. “Such a severe illness would take a toll, particularly when your body is placed under stress, as it was today.”

Feeling his way through the explanation, the constable asked, “So that’s why I collapsed in the staircase? Too much hitting me at once?”

“In a way,” their host granted. “I was referring more to the overuse of your magical core, but that certainly applies as well.”

Scowling, Wordy’s eyes narrowed. “You keep insisting I don’t have a crippled core, but I do; that’s why I’m a Squib, not a wizard.”

The other shrugged. “Your diagnostic said otherwise, _Auror_ Wordsworth. I do not dispute your argument: you _are_ a Squib – but your core is hardly crippled. But that was not my point.”

Perplexed, the big man cocked his head to the side in clear question.

A low chuckle rang out. “Between your illness and your considerable magical exertion of late, you need more food than your friend does.”

Wordy flushed bright red and ducked his head, avoiding Spike’s curious gaze.

“Would you like me to tell him?” More amusement.

Feeling as though his cheeks were on fire, Wordy forced a nod and tried to ignore the soft babble of the wizard explaining things to Spike. Instead he focused on his meal, which was a generous mix of noodles, chicken, shrimp, and several green vegetables slathered in a rather tasty white sauce. Spike voiced something that sounded like a tentative question and Wordy automatically glanced up at the sudden silence.

“He wishes to know if your hands are trembling,” the wizard remarked, his expression inquisitive.

Setting down his knife and fork, Wordy awkwardly twisted on his bed towards the bomb tech and brought both hands up in front of him. His teammate watched intently for a minute, the brunet just as tense, then nodded in clear relief when the brunet’s hands never twitched.

Their host observed with a measure of his own interest. “What disease _do_ you have, Auror Wordsworth?”

Stiffening again, the constable met the question with a challenging glint. “Does it matter? We don’t even know why you’re helping us.”

“Is it not enough to wish to do the right thing?”

Ignoring the jab of shame for questioning their rescuer, Wordy held the other’s gaze. “Doing the right thing is reporting a crime to the authorities. Doing the right thing is jumping in when you see someone getting beaten up or about to get murdered. _We_ were in the middle of a serial killer’s private house of horrors…how on _Earth_ did you even _find_ us? And why not before if you knew what was there?”

The wizard’s jaw twitched. “You… _both_ of you…have magical signatures. I was aware of the killings, but until the pair of you were inside that…house of horrors…I could not _find_ it.”

Chills ran over Wordy’s skin. “Okay,” he admitted, “you had to find it first; I’ll give you that one. But why help us? Who are we to you?”

Another twitch. “I’m doing a favor for an old friend of mine.”

And he would say no more on the topic, deliberately changing it several times when Wordy attempted to press him for more of an answer.

* * * * *

Scéaþ did his best not to feel too bored when their host talked more with Wyrdig than with him. He _did_ appreciate Wyrdig permitting the wizard to explain why his teammate had been given twice as much food, though he couldn’t help but fret once he _knew_ it had something to do with Wyrdig’s shaking palsy. Wyrdig, however, was more embarrassed than concerned, so Scéaþ dropped his worrying once his friend passed the Toth Test, as Team One had dubbed it.

Despite the language barrier, their host’s evasiveness was plain, as was Wyrdig’s frustration with that evasiveness. Scéaþ was almost grateful when the wizard rose and summoned the empty dishes to leave them alone for the night.

Then he paused and turned to look right at Scéaþ. **“I have looked into the spell you were struck with.”**

 **“Yes?”** Scéaþ asked, hope and more than a little terror in that one tiny word.

The other man shook his head. **“I will investigate further, but I suspect the spell used was of the Old Religion.”**

**“There’s no counter-curse?”**

Lips pursed, answering more eloquently than words ever could. **“No.”**

With that, the wizard departed; Scéaþ slumped down, shaking as reality set in. The Old Religion. Old Magic trumped Latin Magic and what was he supposed to do _now_? He’d figured out a _few_ things on his phone, but what was he supposed to _do?_ He couldn’t _work_ like this, couldn’t even talk to his _Mōdor_ like this!

“Spike.”

Scéaþ hugged himself, trembles growing more violent as his world slipped away, right before his eyes. Without his words, what was he? Without his skills – which _depended_ on being able to _read_ – what could he offer? What could he _do_? He really _was_ useless, a helpless burden holding his teammate back; he might’ve saved Wyrdig from the staircase and the dogs, but _Wyrdig_ had done most of the work – and nearly sacrificed his own _life_ and magic in the process.

“Spike.”

Dully, Scéaþ looked up at his friend. His _life_ was over…couldn’t Wyrdig let him fall apart in peace? Let him keep _some_ of his dignity?

“Spike, we’re gonna get through this.”

Incomprehensible gibberish.

Determination blazed in gray eyes; Wyrdig’s hands made the now familiar movements. Connect, respect, protect.

Something wrenched in Scéaþ’s chest and he lunged at his teammate, clinging to him and sobbing like a small child into his sooty, sweaty uniform.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so _tired_ of going to work and not getting any _work_ to do. On Tuesday, we had a _hint_ of getting work to do. We met the Pega lead (very briefly, he left maybe half an hour later and we were not given any contact info for him) and there was talk of a meeting with someone working for the client company at their location. Well, meeting never happened and here we sit, twiddling our thumbs and waiting for something to do. Unless something happens today (highly unlikely since it's Friday), that's yet another week on the bench and yet another week where my coding skills are getting rusty.
> 
> In another blow, I've just found out that one of my coworkers (we aren't exactly a _team_ yet since we're just sitting and each doing our own thing) will be leaving shortly for another job. I cannot blame him for seeking out another job and a large part of me wishes that I could do the same, especially as each week drags on with no resolution in sight.
> 
> I want to be responsible and I want to work - I love writing, but coding is what's paying the bills right now and it's been close to three months now with no _work_ \- but my employer literally won't _give me work_. I want work, I want experience, and I don't want to go for another level of certification until I _get_ that experience. Is that too much to ask?
> 
> Please pray that God would make my path clearer than it is right now. Thus far, I've felt that His will is for me to wait (and it may _still_ be His will), but I can't deny that I'm chafing and fretting and having a great deal of trouble with simply _waiting_. Please pray that if His will is that I continue to wait, He would help me to accept that, but if He wants me to take action, He would make my next steps clear. I desperately need His guidance and yet, as always, He seems to be silent.
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed the chapter and sorry for pouring out my sob story; thanks for listening/reading.


	5. Treading Through History

When Auror Giles Onasi inspected the results from his detection spell, he rather expected to see unfamiliar Apparition coordinates, which would ideally lead him straight to his missing coworkers. He was not expecting to see a set of coordinates so deeply _etched_ in his memory, he would know them half-dead and completely insane. Blood drained from his face, his skin going cold and clammy; fine tremors ran up his spine and through his hands.

“Giles?” Parker’s concerned voice rang as if from a distance; his heart thudded and roared in his ears.

With an effort, Onasi regained control of himself, clutching his hair. It had been _years_ , he didn’t even _remember_ what the area _looked_ like, and, and…he was hyperventilating. Which was bad. Very bad. Why was it bad again? Oh, look, black spots… Why were there black spots?

Parker grabbing his shoulders was a welcome anchor. “Giles, breathe,” he ordered, no give at all; the Auror obeyed without thought. “That’s it, just breathe.” When the brunet had sucked in several more steadying gulps of air, the Sergeant asked, “Giles, do we need another Auror on this?”

Gooseflesh prickled…Simmons would _know_ ; _Locksley_ would _know_. He shook his head violently. “I can… I can do this.” Now if only he could make himself believe that. Straightening and ignoring the worried glances being traded behind his back, Giles inspected the coordinates again, plotting out their best route. Simmons and his squad were long gone – plus his techies were getting close to Apparition sickness any way – so a Portkey would be best.

Although the Neo Death Eaters would detect any Portkeys made outside Magical Toronto, as long as he made them right before departure, it wouldn’t be an issue. Rope…rope would be reusable and easy to grab onto. Stuffing down the old memories, Onasi dissipated his detection spell and conjured a length of rope. Although he knew his techies had climbing rope, conjured rope would take his spell better than the tough, braided nylon climbing rope.

Another tremor ran through him as he cast the _Portus_ **(1)** spell, focusing on _those_ coordinates. Old memory bubbled, but he shoved it away. “Ready,” he called, doing his best to sound more confident than he felt.

“Then let’s go,” Agent Rossi snapped.

* * * * *

It was exactly the same as he remembered it. Trees towered over them in this area of the forest, with a tiny, protected clearing right where they were standing. Grass and dirt, with a stubborn flower here and there. Revan’s safe spot – the location he set for _all_ his emergency Portkeys.

_“Come on, Giles, it’s far enough away from the city that Muggles won’t find it.” A pause. “I always liked it. Quiet and peaceful.”_

_The older Auror shook his head, but a fond smile worked its way across his face. “Okay, Revan. But give me the coordinates, willya? I need to know where we’re going.”_

Old pain ran through his soul and Onasi wrenched his eyes away from _that spot_ and stalked past it to the trees. He cast several detection spells, but they were alone – no sign that anyone had even _been_ here in _years_.

“Anything?” Lane’s voice was tightly wound, with fear for his best friend lurking.

“No…nothing magical,” the Auror admitted.

“I’ve got something,” Agent Gideon called from across the small clearing.

“Parchment,” Lou agreed, crouching to inspect their find. Frowning, the tan-skinned constable glanced up. “It says, ‘Tell them.’ ”

“ ‘Tell them’?” Agent Rossi echoed, turning towards Onasi. “Sounds like a message for you.”

His mouth dried up even as nausea bubbled in his stomach. Memory surged and he frantically stuffed it down again. No, no, no. This wasn’t happening. It _wasn’t_ , it _couldn’t_ ; his teeth snapped closed over a whimper. No, he wasn’t going back there…he _couldn’t_ …

Parker touched his shoulder and he jerked away as if scalded. The negotiator held up his hands, palms open as the Auror reflexively backed up, instinctively trying to get space and make himself look smaller. “Giles, stop.” Firm, but gentle. “We’ll find them.” Hazel shifted to Lane. “Call Locksley; let’s see if we can get a batch of Lost Soul Potion going. This lead’s a dead end.”

“How long will the potion take?” Agent Hotchner asked, frowning. “Your constables are injured; they need medical attention as quickly as possible.”

Giles blanched at the idea of finding them _dead_ , just because _he_ couldn’t _get a grip_. Yet the thought of _telling_ them, ripping open wounds that had _never_ healed… His eyes trailed back to _that spot_ ; shivers rattled his body, but…

He _owed_ them. They’d given him a chance, a new partner, stood beside him through thick and thin. To let _his_ techies die, just because he couldn’t face his own past…

Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out everything save his heartbeat. Memory clawed and this time he couldn’t push it back.

“Morgana died in ’93.” Even to himself, his voice was distorted and distant; his lips were numb, but somehow they still moved. “On Samhaine.” Her eyes meeting his, the soft sigh of her final breath as he screamed for the Healers and clung to her, weeping into her hair. It had taken six Healers to pry her body away from him.

“They made Revan my partner the next year, after I socked Paul Ryan in the jaw for making fun of Morgana.” Actually, the other man had said much worse than that, right in front of the whole office and Giles had gone for his _throat_ , but they’d hauled him off before he could do worse than the jaw.

Absently hugging himself, the trembling man stared blankly at _that spot_. “I was a mess, but Revan wouldn’t give up. Wouldn’t walk away. He _made_ me believe in myself again.” Merlin, he hated this, hated the utter stillness as the rest listened to the worst days of his life. “It was… It was December 24th, 1995.” He stopped, gathered himself, breath coming in short pants. A bitter bark. “Christmas Eve.”

“You were ambushed,” Roy whispered. “Watson killed Revan.” He looked around. “Is this…”

The Auror shook his head. “This is where Revan’s Portkey brought us,” he managed. “On Christmas.”

* * * * *

_He fought, wildly, as they tried to take him away from Revan. They couldn’t, he wouldn’t_ let _them. Teeth found their mark, drawing a yelp from one of his attackers. Touching, they were_ touching _him. His skin howled; he drove his head backwards into another attacker with an animal wail._

_One was down, nursing a black eye, but the rest were_ on _him,_ touching _, hurting, clawing; his soul wailed anguish._

_And Revan never moved._

_“Stop touching him and get back!”_

_They let him go, but one tried to grab him again as he scuttled out of reach and back to_ Revan _. “He needs medical attention.”_

_Black eye yanked the man away while the speaker knelt down to his level; he stared back warily as he hunched protectively over Revan. “Whatever you’re thinking, Brian, do it fast!”_

_“Fast isn’t the plan,” the speaker murmured, his eyes fixed on_ him _…on_ Revan _._

_He shook Revan’s shoulder._ Revan wake up? _But he didn’t. A keen built in his chest, but he remained in his spot, watching the attackers warily. Waiting for red pain to come at him. Fear shook him, but to run would leave_ Revan _to_ them _. He couldn’t do that._

_“Giles? Can you tell me what happened?”_

_Pain jabbed his side as he curled around Revan. Whimpers broke free; they would hurt him, they would hurt Revan._ No, no, no. No touch, no hurt, no more red pain. _He risked a glance at the speaker, the tormentor watching him, waiting. Couldn’t run…couldn’t let him hurt Revan._

_“We’re not going to hurt you,” the tormentor said. Lies. “We won’t touch you, either, not unless you want us to.”_

_His head shook vigorously as a new whimper rose._

_“Okay, no touching.”_

No touch? No hurt? No red pain? _Words tore their way free from his throat. “Revan?” A blonde tormentor past the speaking tormentor jumped. “Help?”_

_Aching sorrow in the speaking one’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Giles.” Was_ he _Giles? “Revan’s dead.”_

_“Not. Dead.” Words hurt, but they had to understand._ Revan not gone. She gone. Not lose Revan, too. _“Help. Revan.”_

_The speaking tormentor edged closer and he curled around Revan, protecting with his own body, skin already protesting. Touching, Revan was_ touching _him._ Not let Revan die.

_“Giles.” Firm and somehow familiar. “If you want help, we have to get close, understand?” A slow, grieving breath. “Revan wouldn’t want_ you _to stay hurt while he’s being looked after.”_

_Grief. Like when she died. His head came up, studying the speaking tormentor. Sorrow, anguish, grief, loss._ No.Revan not dead. _But no air brushed his cheek. No breath stirred his hair. He slumped, releasing Revan. “Gone,” he whimpered. “Like. Morgana.”_

_The speaking one edged closer, but didn’t touch. That was good. “I’m sorry, Giles. He was a good man…a good friend.”_

_Gone. Never coming back. Pain engulfed him, but it wasn’t from his skin, wasn’t from the red pain. “Hurts.”_

_He let them touch him, even as his skin wailed and that touch tore him to pieces. Revan was dead. Morgana was dead. Dustil was dead._

Can I die too?

* * * * *

The parchment appeared right in the center of _that spot_. The spot where Revan’s body had been, for hours on end before the Healers had finally Stunned him and removed them both – he’d attacked them again when they tried to move the body and not even Brian had been able to get through to him.

Parker retrieved the folded sheet, opening it. “Coordinates.”

A trembling hand reached out and Giles was absently grateful when the Sergeant was careful not to touch him as he handed the parchment over. He frowned at the new coordinates; they weren’t familiar, not offhand. But they were close.

Glancing around, the wizard pulled his wand and dared a soft, “ _Point Me_ ,” as he focused on the coordinates. The wand spun briefly, then stopped, pointing into the woods. “We can walk,” he managed to rasp. “Close enough for a _Point Me_ spell.”

“Copy; Eddie, take point.”

“You got it, Boss.”

Onasi blinked when he realized he was surrounded; Roy at his side and the rest of Team One ranged around the pair, blocking the profilers’ view. None of them touched him, a gesture he couldn’t help but appreciate; his partner hovered, concern evident.

Away from the clearing, his shoulders relaxed, though old memories still boiled and churned beneath the surface.

* * * * *

“Greg.”

Sergeant Greg Parker sighed, glancing over at his team leader. “I know, Eddie. Whoever took Wordy and Spike knows exactly what happened back then.”

“He didn’t recognize the second location,” Ed pointed out.

Parker shook his head. “I don’t think he’ll recognize any of the others. _This_ location – I would bet he’d been there several times, before Revan died.”

“He knew it.”

A sharp nod.

Lane scowled. “He doesn’t want us calling Locksley.”

“No more than _I’d_ want _you_ calling my sarge from my days in Homicide,” the negotiator countered gently. “She knows about this, Eddie. She’d have to; she’s been an Auror longer than Giles and it’s a small division.” Sighing, Greg ran a hand over his head. “She told us he was suicidal after his wife died, Eddie. We just didn’t have the details.”

“Suicidal, sure, but…” the constable trailed off. “Greg, he needed a rubber room!”

Parker shushed his team leader, not particularly wanting their teammates to overhear the conversation. “And I needed rehab,” he said simply.

“It’s not the same,” Ed protested.

“So what would you do, Eddie? Take away your brother’s partner because he had a rough patch after he lost three people he loved to Nick Watson? Kick Giles off the police force and destroy the new life he’s built for himself?”

The lean sniper dropped his gaze, abashed. “No.”

The sound of rushing water ended any further discussion. Frowning, Greg moved ahead and stepped through the trees to find himself at the top of waterfall. Sharp rocks marched across the swiftly flowing river’s edge and the drop itself… Parker shuddered at a twenty meter fall and hastily edged back.

When he glanced behind him, Giles was staring past him at the river, paler than a ghost and trembling again. His stomach dropped.

Suicidal and half-insane…Dear God.

* * * * *

No. No, no, no, he couldn’t do this. He didn’t even know how he’d managed to tell them about _that day_. The second-worst day of his _life_. Roy caught him as his knees gave out; his skin shrieked and memory swept over him.

* * * * *

Gone. Morgana. Dustil. Revan. Hurts. _The skeletal man stared at the rushing water, rubbing bare shoulders. The robes had_ itched _. They’d let him outside to enjoy the sun. He’d gone_ there _, looking for Revan…only to remember…_ Revan gone.

_“Giles?”_

_Disinterested brown looked up at the sound, then the deepest depths of his mind whispered. If he didn’t do it now,_ they _would stop him._ They _would make him keep living, forcing him to endure the pain of losing everything he was,_ everyone _he loved._

_“Giles! Where are you?”_

_He fumbled for the water, swallowing a yelp as bare feet and knees objected to the sharp twigs and rocks under them._ Hurts. Make it stop. No more hurt.

_A shout of discovery rang out. “Giles! Don’t do it!”_

_He flung himself in the water, but he’d misjudged. His body slammed into the sharp rocks instead of going over the edge. Whimpering, he struggled to get his frail, emaciated form to resist the water’s flow long enough…_

_Someone grabbed his wrist, dragging him upwards and out of the water. They didn’t let go until they’d hauled him back to shore and away from the edge. He struggled, but his strength was nonexistent; sobs wrenched his chest, but he couldn’t squirm free._

_“Don’t do this to yourself,” the man whispered once they were well away from the edge. “You’re better than this.”_

_“Revan. Gone.”_ Morgana. Dustil. Gone. All gone.

_“It’s going to get better for you, I promise.”_

_Silver hair couldn’t promise. He whimpered, gazing longingly at the water. No more pain._

_“Brian, did you find him?” Another man appeared, glanced down at him, then up at the water. Swore._

_“Come on, Nathan, let’s get him out of here.” His rescuer dragged him up, sounding tired. “Can Anne get him out of St. Mungo’s? They’re not even_ trying _.”_

_“I think so, but where would he stay? He can’t go home like he is, Brian.”_

_“He can come home with me.”_

_A grunt. “Another one of your wild ideas?” Disapproval rang._

_Silver hair shrugged. “If nothing else, I can get some meat on his bones. I’ve seen_ skeletons _with more muscle.”_

* * * * *

Parker was touching him; his skin crawled, but he lacked the energy to pull away. Hollow eyes lifted to worried hazel. “How long had it been?”

“Six weeks,” he mumbled, wishing he could find a handy rock to crawl under.

“And Brian saved you?”

Onasi nodded, his throat tight. Nathan Simmons had been his training Auror, but Brian Wilkins… Off-the-wall and very much a rogue, Brian had been a maverick Auror who got the job done while still being empathic enough to devote over three _years_ of work to nursing an insane, skeletal wreck of a man back to health. Back to sanity. Arrogant, pushy, and very much the typical entitled pureblood, but by Merlin, if Wilkins took you under his wing, he _believed_ in you and _never_ backed down. Or gave up. Losing him had been yet another sledgehammer, right to the heart.

“Got another parchment,” Lou called.

Oh _goodie_. He could torture himself some _more_ …

* * * * *

Ed resisted the urge to swear as he inspected their arrival point. The tiny room stank of old blood and death. Sam helpfully located a palm sized electric lantern in his gear, turning it on so they could see. Lane wished he hadn’t. Three wooden beams still sported ragged old rope embedded with blood and gore. There were no bodies, but it was all too easy to see the utter _misery_ this place had held.

Giles wasn’t standing any more – he’d barely been able to stagger up and cast the Portkey spell to get them away from that bloody waterfall. Roy supported his partner’s weight on one side while Agent Rossi supported the other side, sympathy plain as the Auror trembled and shook in the grip of old memories.

Agent Gideon had quietly suggested calling another Auror in before they’d left the forest, but Greg had simply shaken his head. Much as he hated it, the sniper knew why.

Their new subject was targeting _Giles_. He had Wordy and Spike in his clutches and he was _using_ that fact as a weapon against the traumatized Auror. If they pulled Giles out, they wouldn’t be able to find their teammates, a horrid reality that left Ed longing for his sniper rifle and a target. Preferably their latest subject’s _head_.

Animal-like whimpers came from the usually proud Auror; the constable turned away in vicarious shame for the spectacle. They should’ve called Locksley and used the Lost Soul Potion instead of forcing Giles through this…this _nightmare_.

“Easy, partner, I got you,” Roy said, but Onasi didn’t seem to hear.

“Revan,” he whimpered. “Revan…”

Greg closed in, his touch somehow doing what none of them could – bring the tormented man back to himself. “Easy, Giles,” he whispered as hollow brown eyes focused on him. “This is where Watson did it?”

Another whimper and a nod.

“Got it,” Agent Hotchner announced, yanking a parchment off the middle pillar.

“Eddie.”

Understanding, Ed put his shoulder to the rotten door, busting it out. They weren’t staying a _millisecond_ longer in this place of fear, torture, and _death_.

* * * * *

Sam blinked in puzzlement at their latest destination, a random street corner in a rougher part of Magical Toronto. He traded glances with Jules, her expression thoughtful. Behind the constables, Roy was trying to get his partner to stand on his own again now that they were away from that dank, gory cellar. Remembering the unmistakable signs of violence, Braddock shivered.

“This is it,” Jules whispered suddenly.

“What’s it?”

Solemn dark eyes lifted to him. “Where Revan and Giles were ambushed.”

Sam’s blood ran cold. It fit. Where else would they be sent besides the place where it had all begun? “How long before we break him?”

“I think we already did,” Jules replied mournfully.

He thought so too. Blond and brunette turned, watching as Giles looked around, paled alarmingly, and nearly collapsed again – Roy and Rossi caught him. The Boss descended, his touch and voice once again dragging the Auror out of his grisly past and back to the present.

“Giles, Giles, why here? You and Revan didn’t even _fight_ Watson’s people; they ambushed you.”

The guilty moan made all of them cringe and Onasi attempted to curl in on himself. “Revan’s…Revan’s informant wanted out _weeks_ before we pulled her. We… _I_ …needed more. Revan talked her into staying, but _I’m_ the one who ordered it. If we’d pulled her out when she asked…”

“Stop.” Sam stepped forward, his eyes boring into the other man’s. “You made a call; the best one you _could_ with what you knew at the time. For all you know, her cover had already been blown.” He stopped, judging the guilt, then added harshly, “If you’re to blame for Revan’s death, then _I’m_ to blame for Matt’s.” Inside, his gut twinged, but he held Giles’ gaze without flinching.

“Got our next destination,” Jules announced, straightening up with the latest piece of parchment. “Maybe this is it?”

Sam sure hoped so.

* * * * *

Roy was sick and tired of being no use to his partner – sure he could keep Giles upright all day, but _why_ was Giles responding more to Parker and Team One than his _own partner_?

So when they landed in a cluster of shipping containers with a piece of parchment prominently taped to the closest one – a dark green one – Roy left Onasi in Rossi’s care, stalked over to the message, and ripped it off the door.

“ ‘Tell them about St. Mungo’s,’ ” he read aloud, turning on his heel to see Giles pale once more. “ ‘And about how many times you tried to commit suicide.’ ”

Giles dropped his gaze, shuddering violently. He drew breath, then froze at a ripping noise.

Roy finished ripping the parchment in half, then turned the pieces and tore _them_ in half. “Enough,” he spat. “Enough of this!” Another rip as the lean detective trembled himself. “You know what, partner? I don’t wanna know! You went through _hell_ and I don’t _care_ how many times you tried to make it _stop_.”

Tears spilled from two sets of eyes as the detectives locked gazes.

“But if you _ever_ try again, I’ll _kill_ you _myself_ ,” Roy snarled.

In the middle of the dirt clearing, another parchment appeared out of thin air, gently tumbling to the ground.

[1] Spell used to create Portkeys. From either the Latin ‘porta’ meaning ‘gate’ or ‘portare’ meaning ‘to carry’.


	6. Blood Brothers?

A tinkle of chimes rang the hour, briefly drawing Wordy’s head up from his self-appointed task. With a tiny mental shrug, the constable went back to Spike’s phone, his fingers nudging the list of languages down before he selected the next one.

Spike sat next to his bed, playing Cat’s Cradle with a length of string he’d found in one of the drawers. The bomb tech looked up, inspecting the phone his partner held out before shaking his head. Although he’d dropped his string the first couple of times, once it became clear Wordy’s idea would take awhile – if it even _worked_ – he’d settled into his makeshift play.

Sighing, Wordy pulled the phone back and navigated back to the language list while trying not to think about Spike’s breakdown. Or what they would do if there _wasn’t_ a solution to the language problem. He didn’t trust their host and hand signals could only do so much, but…

The constable surveyed the rest of the list, mentally wincing. Only five languages left to try. And if none of them worked? What then? He pushed the debate away, a corner of his tongue poking out as he selected the next language. They’d cross that bridge when they came to it.

* * * * *

Twenty minutes later, Wordy set the phone back to English, set it down on Spike’s side of the dresser, and walked over to the bookcase, doing his best to hide how upset he was. At the bookcase, he turned just enough to watch as Spike kept his eyes down and on the string, just as upset and frustrated as his friend, if not more so. It wasn’t _Wordy_ looking at the loss of his job and life…it was an English-challenged _Spike_.

Little wonder then, that his buddy had broken down, though the brunet would take that incident to his grave. _No one_ needed to know, of that the big man was determined. Shifting back to the bookcase, Wordy started scanning the titles, searching for something useful – or maybe just interesting.

One book stood out, not because it was interesting, but because he couldn’t read the title. Tugging the tome free, Wordy frowned thoughtfully at it, then turned his attention to the highest shelf, eyes narrowing as he hunted for more titles he couldn’t read. Most of the titles were in English, but a narrow book on the top shelf, three mid-sized tomes on the middle shelf, and two thick binders on the bottom shelf were incomprehensible.

The constable set his first find down to tug the binders free, then worked his way up again, pulling out the other books and stacking them together. He hefted the stack over to his bed, then offered the top one to Spike. The bomb tech tilted his head, curiosity shining, then let his string slip off his fingers to take the offering. He turned the book, studying it before opening up to the first page. Then he froze, his head jerking up in shock.

“You can read it?” Wordy asked hopefully before wincing. Spike’s expression turned perplexed, so the brunet sighed and reached forward, running one finger over the top line. He pulled back, his hands moving in an ‘ears in?’ question.

Spike beamed, catching on at once, and nodded. His eyes went wide as Wordy nudged the rest of the stack towards him. Putting down the first book, the bomb tech swiftly went through the rest of the books, flipping them open to inspect the writing within. To the big constable’s gratified surprise, his partner worked through the whole stack, his smile growing bigger with each tome. When he was done, the books had all migrated to Spike’s bed and the bomb tech gave him a thumbs up.

“Wow,” Wordsworth whispered. He hadn’t expected _all_ of them to work out. Encouraged, he headed back to the bookcase to find some reading material for himself.

* * * * *

Scéaþ’s enthusiasm dimmed at the old style language in the books, but the only other things to do were brooding and Cat’s Cradle, so he drew in a deep breath and began foraging through the books, searching for anything of interest. Three pages in, he perked up again – these were _spellbooks_.

The ‘þees’ and ‘þous’ **(2)** hardly phased him as he wandered through pages of spells, from common fire and herb preservation spells, to the more exotic magical shields, intended to guard against dragonfire. The first tome finished with several pages of spells meant for defeating – or controlling – magical creatures. It might have been fascinating, but Scéaþ was reasonably sure most of the creatures discussed no longer existed.

Sighing, Scéaþ put the book aside, wishing he could ask Þegen’s niece and nephew about the spells. Eyeing the remaining stack, he shrugged and plucked the next off the top, a thin book with the intriguing title of ‘Þe Olde Rituals’ **(3).** Inside, the spellbook began with a ritual designed to create an afanc **(4);** Scéaþ shuddered at the description of the creature’s…traits. Unnerved, but undaunted, Scéaþ soldiered on, wincing at ritual after ritual meant to twist magic, manipulate souls, and create creatures that should never see the light of day.

At the very end of the book, the last ritual caught his eye. Compared to the other rituals, it seemed…tame. Innocent. Just two sorcerers pooling their magic. Frowning, Scéaþ re-read the description, wondering why it intrigued him so much. After all, it wasn’t like _he_ had any magic he could share with anyone. Although, if he could share languages with Wyrdig… He jerked to a halt in the middle of putting the book down.

Share languages? _Talk_ to his teammate again? He read the ritual for a third time, a new fire lighting in his blood. Simple enough. One knife, used to cut both participants’ palms. Press the cuts together and recite the ritual words. Done.

Excitement bubbled and Scéaþ bounced up, hurrying over to where Wyrdig was searching through the bookcase again for a new book to read. He tugged on his partner’s shoulder and thrust the book at him.

**“We can talk again!”** he cried. **“And it looks really simple, too!”**

“Whoa, easy, Spike,” Wyrdig protested, taking the book and scanning the page. “I can’t read any of this.”

Scéaþ wilted at Wyrdig’s clear bemusement. Casting about for a way to explain, he seized Wyrdig’s free hand and traced a line on the palm before tracing another line on his own palm and pressing the hands together. Hopeful, he glanced up at his friend, but Wyrdig continued to stare at him, utterly lost.

Then Wyrdig cocked his head to the side and thrust the book back at Scéaþ; Scéaþ took the book, discouragement budding; but Wyrdig strode back to their beds and tugged the nightstand’s drawer open, revealing ordinary paper and pens.

“Here, Spike, draw it,” Wyrdig urged, pulling out a page and a pen.

The bomb tech took the paper – though he couldn’t understand his partner’s sentence, he didn’t need to either. The solution was obvious. Quickly he sketched two stick figures pushing their ‘hands’ together with a scrawl over their heads to indicate words. Frowning, Scéaþ added a second, ‘close up’ type picture of a knife and pointed between the knife and his palm.

Wyrdig leaned over the picture, expression thoughtful as he inspected it. Then he pulled out another piece of paper and sketched his own picture. He divided the paper up into two sections. In the first, he drew a knife cutting into a palm and put an ‘x2’ next to the drawing; in the second, he mimicked Scéaþ’s first drawing, with the stick figures and a speech bubble above their heads.

“Like that?”

Scéaþ took the second drawing, puzzling over it a moment before nodding.

Wyrdig leaned back on his heels, then shrugged. “Sure, why not.”

The bomb tech cocked his head, but perked up when Wyrdig nudged the book still in his hands and nodded firmly. Turning back to the ritual, Scéaþ carefully read the words aloud, making Wyrdig repeat them several times. His friend stumbled over them badly, but got closer with each repetition.

Satisfied, Scéaþ hunted around for a knife, then flushed when Wyrdig held his up, one eyebrow cocked sardonically. Drawing in a deep breath, the brunet cut both their palms; the blood stung as they pressed their palms together.

As with the practice runs, Wyrdig stumbled over the first word, but then, like magic, he – _they_ – spoke smoothly, intonation letter perfect. “ _Brōþra nú, wé ġedǣlaþ úrera glēawnessa._ **(5)”**

A single drop of blood fell from between their palms to the ground and Scéaþ’s eyes widened as he felt something take hold, deep inside; Wyrdig’s face twisted as if he could feel the same.

“Spike, **can you understand me?”** Wyrdig blinked in surprise at the words coming out of his own mouth, jerking back, but Scéaþ felt his grin split his face.

**“I understand you,** Wyrdig.”

Wyrdig frowned, carefully mouthing something to himself, then glanced up. “Spike, can you still understand me?”

Scéaþ’s shoulders slumped and he shook his head in disappointment.

**“Hey, easy there,** Spike, **at least we’re getting somewhere. We don’t need a translator anymore.”**

That was true; Scéaþ brightened and grinned back at his partner. No more hand signals or hoping their host would translate for them.

Wyrdig fidgeted, wary and uncomfortable. “Spike, **what’d he tell you earlier?”**

The grin dropped away. **“He…he said that wizard used the Old Religion,”** Scéaþ whispered, hugging himself. **“There’s no counter curse.”**

Gesturing to the book Scéaþ had found, Wyrdig drawled wryly, **“Maybe he just didn’t look hard enough.”**

Scéaþ laughed, both at the joke and in sheer relief. Finally, he could _talk_ to his own teammate. Even if he _still_ couldn’t use his own phone.

* * * * *

With their communication issues partially solved, the pair returned to their reading, hunting through the spellbooks for something that might allow Scéaþ to regain his original language. Wyrdig stuck with the other books, rightly pointing out that there were fewer books in Scéaþ’s language and the bomb tech couldn’t read ‘Englisc’ any way.

**“The Old Religion trumps Latin,”** Scéaþ grumbled.

**“You never know,** Spike, **Latin might just surprise us one day,”** Wyrdig countered cheerfully, flipping through another book. Sighing, he put it back, shaking his head at Scéaþ’s curious glance. **“Divination.”**

Ugh. Making a face, Scéaþ returned to his own book with a huff at Wyrdig’s stubbornness. Of all the times for Wyrdig to dig his heels in… The bomb tech was _sure_ the solution was somewhere in his small stack of books, making his frustration at Wyrdig surge higher and higher the longer his teammate wasted time with the Englisc books. The clock chimed the half-hour, but neither man looked up; a comfortable silence descended, broken only by the flipping of pages.

_Thump._

Scéaþ’s head sprang up and he froze; Wyrdig was on his hands and knees, pale and sweating. The bomb tech dropped his book and hustled to his friend. “Spike,” Wyrdig managed, his voice trembling, **“I don’t feel so good…”**

With hardly a second to spare, the lean constable managed to get a plastic bucket from the room’s tiny attached bathroom thrust under his friend’s chin.

Ten minutes later, the vomiting stopped, but Scéaþ hardly cared; Wyrdig, partway through losing his breakfast, lunch, and dinner, had descended into delirium. Moaning, the brunet thrashed on the floor, oblivious to Scéaþ’s attempts to get him up on the closest bed. Abruptly, he curled up, clutching his midsection; for an instant, blue light played across his skin, but it was thin…stretched.

Just as abruptly, Wyrdig’s back arched; Scéaþ dodged his teammate’s flailing boots, eyes wide as the other man gasped for air, eyes rolling as the bluish hue around him intensified, then faded.

Realization broke through; the _ritual_. He was _sharing_ Wyrdig’s magic – but he had _none_ of his own. Which meant the only magic to be shared had been _Wyrdig’s_. What had he been _thinking_ to risk his friend’s vulnerable, crippled Squib-sized magical core? How could he have been so _selfish_?

**“Come on,** Wyrdig, **don’t die on me,”** Scéaþ begged, scooting close to his partner again, heedless of the risk to his limbs. It would serve him _right_ for endangering his teammate… _again_. **“Stay with me.”**

Shouts brought the constable’s head snapping around. Familiar yells, even if the words were gibberish. **“Guys?”**

Wyrdig moaned and Scéaþ dragged his teammate away from the doorway, wincing when his partner mindlessly kicked out at the bed post; there was a dull _crack_ from Wyrdig’s shin.

Team One surged in the door, weapons up and yelling orders; Scéaþ could’ve cried with relief. Help. Their team had _found_ them.

“Spike?” Léw. “You okay?”

Before Scéaþ could even cock his head in confusion, Wyrdig thrashed again, reminding him of the greater problem. Eyes widening in horror, Scéaþ babbled, **“We did a ritual so we could talk and it worked, but now it’s hurting** Wyrdig!”

An instant later, he cringed, realizing _none_ of his team could understand him. The only one who _could_ was out cold on the floor…

“Spike.” He looked up as Þegen knelt next to them, one hand dropping to Wyrdig’s arm. **“It’s gonna be okay.”**

Scéaþ’s jaw dropped open.

His was not the only one.

[2] We might say ‘thees’ and ‘thous’, but Scéaþ is currently using the ‘þ’ or thorn.

[3] ‘Þ’ is an uppercase thorn, so the title, in English is: The Olde Rituals. Although some might actually say ‘Ye Olde Rituals’.

[4] An afanc is a creature created by the Old Religion with the elements of water and earth. They can poison a city’s water supply, inflicting their victims with a plague that kills within a day, leaving the victims with pasty white skin and blue veins in the process. Afancs can only be killed by magic that mixes the elements of air and fire.

[5] Old English for ‘Brothers now, we share our skills/abilities.’ Website used is https://www.oldenglishtranslator.co.uk/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another week, another batch of notes. While I appreciate all the time to work on notes/writing, my coding skills are getting rustier and rustier and there seems to be no end in sight. Plus, I'm now very solidly on the project, which means I really can't leave the project without leaving the company (I think). And leaving the company's not an option until summer. *sigh*


	7. Reclaiming English

Despite his instant worry for a delirious, unconscious Wordy, Greg was forced to suppress a chuckle at Spike’s slack-jawed gape. Not to mention Sam’s incredulous, “You can _talk_ to him, Boss?”

The Sergeant twisted back towards the rest of his team, humor glinting in hazel eyes. The profilers had already recovered their poise and every one of them sported an assessing, considering expression directed squarely at him. His teammates were still gawking and, outside the door, he faintly heard Roy asking Onasi if he’d had a few too many donuts for lunch as the lean detective supported his larger, heavier partner up the stairs.

“Sam, go help Roy with Onasi,” Parker ordered. “Lou, Eddie, let’s get Wordy up on one of these beds. Jules, if you and the agents could clear the rest of the residence…?”

Technically, the Americans weren’t under his command, but they accepted his orders nonetheless and followed both Jules and Sam out of the room. Maneuvering around his constable’s thrashing form, Greg tugged his bomb tech out of the way and helped Young and Lane lift Wordy up on the only clear bed in the room – the other was piled high with books.

Ed grimaced as he ran one hand down his best friend’s right shin. “He got himself pretty good, Greg; feels like a break.”

“Copy,” the Sergeant acknowledged softly. Turning to his forlorn raven-haired constable, he asked, “Spike, **from the beginning, what happened?”** Fidgeting, Spike retrieved one of the books on the other bed, a slender tome with a title that caught Parker’s eye at once: ‘The Olde Rituals’. Taking the book, the officer flipped it open, eyebrows rising as he scanned the pages. **“Rituals,** Spike? **And you got one to work _without_ magic?”**

The bomb tech flushed and shook his head. “Wyrdig’s **magic,”** he explained in a low, miserable voice. **“It worked, but…”**

“Wordy **can’t handle the strain,”** Parker finished, earning an even more miserable nod. Turning back to the book, he asked, **“Which one?”**

**“The last one.”** The Sergeant turned the book, displaying the ritual he’d found. **“Yeah, that’s the one,”** Spike confirmed.

Frowning at the entry, Greg flipped through the rest of the rituals again, cringing at how corrupt and vile every last one of them was. **“You used a Dark ritual to share magic with** Wordy? **Why?”**

Spike froze, horrified. **“Dark?”** he croaked. **“It’s Dark?”**

Parker landed his best unimpressed glare on his constable. **“Don’t tell me you didn’t read the whole book,** Michelangelo Scarlatti.” He tapped the spine, glare intensifying. **“Don’t tell _me_ you didn’t notice just how _Dark_ all these rituals are.”**

Spike squirmed guiltily. **“That one didn’t look that bad. And it worked,** Þegen, **I promise. I mean, I still couldn’t speak** Englisc, **but we were talking and _everything._ I swear, I didn’t know it would hurt him.”** Shame limed every inch of the miserable bomb tech’s form. **“I never would’ve suggested it if I had,** Þegen.”

“Boss? What’s going on?” Ed questioned, a wary edge to his voice.

Sighing heavily, Greg ran a hand over his head. “Spike found a ritual to let him and Wordy share magic. He says it worked, that he and Wordy could talk after they did it, but he still can’t speak English and well…” He trailed off, indicating the thrashing, muttering constable. “It looks to _me_ like the ritual was designed to work even if whoever supplied the magic didn’t have enough to share.”

“So what, we just have to get Wordy through this until it wears off?” Lou asked hopefully.

Ed didn’t miss his boss’s flinch. “Greg?” he half-asked, half-demanded.

The Sergeant held up the book. “According to this, it’s not _going_ to wear off. Magically speaking, Spike and Wordy are brothers now; Wordy’s magic is trying to split itself between them to maintain the new blood connection.”

“And there’s not enough,” Sam concluded, poking his head in the door. “Rest of the place is clear, Sarge. Looks like our subject got away.”

“Shame,” Roy growled. “I was looking forward to _meeting_ him.”

And throwing a punch or two, no doubt; Giles was an emotional _wreck_ , which meant his partner was overprotective and looking for someone to _hurt_. Parker, however, had started to wonder…who could have known _all_ those details? The Portkey landing site and the cellar torture chamber, sure, but the waterfall? The details behind the weeks prior to the Christmas Eve ambush? That pointed message about Onasi’s multiple suicide attempts at the hospital? Who, besides Giles himself, _knew_ every last detail? And why bring it up _now_ , well over a decade later?

Dismissing their absent subject with a shake of his head, the negotiator focused on a thoughtful Braddock. “Sam?”

“Boss, what if _I_ do the same ritual with Spike?” the Squib-born suggested. “I’ve got more magic than Wordy does; maybe that would take the strain off.”

“Or put you in the same position,” Jules countered. “If we’re talking about second options…” She trailed off pointedly, glancing behind her to a certain Auror.

Greg’s wild side protested at once with an internal yowl that made the Sergeant wince. As angry as the gryphon was, if it _did_ come down to Giles, Eddie might have to tie him up first. Keep him from interfering. As the thought crossed his mind, the gryphon hissed, nudging and prodding at him. Without really knowing it, Parker opened the ritual book again and flipped through it, examining the text with a predator’s focus.

Around him, the argument picked up steam; Roy was objecting to putting even _more_ stress on his partner while both Eddie and Lou were arguing that Onasi had _plenty_ of magic to spare for _one_ ritual. Sam tried to edge in, insisting that _he_ knew Spike and Wordy better than Giles; _that_ might make all the difference. Jules maintained it was too much of a risk to Sam and Spike, unable to comprehend a _word_ of what was being discussed, looked on in bewilderment, shame, and no small amount of terror. Meanwhile, Wordy thrashed and moaned, his movements growing weaker the longer his magic strained to split itself in between two wielders.

“All right, enough.” The words cut through the debate, stilling it at once. The gryphon gleamed behind Parker’s hazel as he brought his head up, pointing first to Braddock. “Jules is right, Sam, you don’t have enough magic to pull something like this off. You try and Wordy _might_ recover. But _you’ll_ be the one down on the bed instead.” The blond gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he stared at Wordy’s limp, delirious form.

The finger shifted to Onasi. “You have more than enough magic,” the Sergeant admitted. “But we’re talking about a ritual that uses the Old Religion, which you have _no_ experience with. If we want this thing to work _right_ , then we need someone who at _least_ knows the basics of Old Magic.” The Auror swallowed, knowing just as well as Parker that while he held no grudges against the Calvin siblings, he’d also gone out of his way to avoid learning anything about the magic they used.

“So _you’re_ going to do the ritual?” Ed demanded sharply.

“That would be the plan, Eddie.” Sarcasm tinged Greg’s reply; his team leader stiffened, both at the uncharacteristic tone and the gryphon eyes.

“Greg.” The word held both plea and warning.

“What do you want me to do, Eddie, watch him die?” Parker shook his head firmly; he hadn’t done that with a cursed choker around his constable’s neck, he _wasn’t_ going to do it _now_. Jerking his short knife from its sheath at the top of his boot, he waved Spike closer.

Ed stepped forward, getting between them. “Greg. Tell him.” When the Sergeant’s eyes narrowed, Lane shook his head. “Tell Spike what’s going on or I’m not moving, Boss. You’re right on the edge and we _both_ know it.”

“Þegen?” Spike asked, plaintive and afraid. **“What’s going on?”**

Sergeant and team leader stared at each other, neither backing down; Ed held his stance even as his best friend’s moans grew fainter, though the anguish in blue eyes spoke to what his decision was costing him. “You don’t even know if it’s _going_ to work, Greg.”

No, he didn’t, but what choice did they have? The gryphon strained, demanding that he put yellow in its place; internally, the negotiator’s human side recoiled and the same iron will that had once given Parker the strength to abandon alcohol for the sake of a young orphan came to his aid.

“Spike.” Soft, firm. **“You’re going to do this ritual with me.** Wordy **should start recovering once we do that.”**

The bomb tech glanced between his boss and team leader. **“Then what’s** Éadweard **so worried about?”**

There was a long pause, then the Sergeant sighed in resignation. “Ed’s **worried I’ll lose control of my wild side.”**

Alarm flashed. **“No, no, no. Then there’s got to be another way,** Þegen,” Spike begged. **“ _I_ did this to **Wyrdig, **I can’t hurt _you_ , too!”**

“Spike, **there’s no time,”** Greg retorted. “Wordy **may not rely on his magic like most Squibs do, but he still _needs_ it.”** He gestured to the weakening constable. **“This is exactly the same thing that happened on that cargo ship three weeks ago; he’s delirious _because_ his magic is almost gone.”**

Spike crept closer to Wordy, resting a hand on his teammate’s neck when the brunet whimpered. **“He saved my life,”** the bomb tech admitted, glancing back and up at his boss.

**“We know,** Spike,” the Sergeant replied. **“The subject was recording everything.”**

**“If we do this, he’ll live?”**

**“Boy, I hope so,** Spike.”

The lithe constable considered, then nodded firmly and rose, one hand stretched out, a white line across the palm. **“Ready,** Þegen.”

Ed shifted to be between them again; Parker’s eyes narrowed. “I told him, Eddie. Now _move_.”

The moment hung, then Lane sidestepped, letting his teammates close with each other. Briskly, Greg opened up the cut Spike already had and slashed his own palm open without even flinching. Both hands came together and Parker felt his core stir to life. Meeting Spike’s eyes, the Wild Mage Squib-born nodded once.

Two voices rang out, mixing and melding as they spoke. “ _Brōþra nú, wé ġedǣlaþ úrera glēawnessa._ ” A single mixed drop of blood fell, heralding Wordy’s relieved sigh as blue flickered around him, thin and stretched, but no longer under strain.

“Wordy?” Spike asked, worry and hope mixing.

Ed checked his friend’s forehead and relaxed. “Already a little cooler,” he reported.

The bomb tech slumped in open relief, then jerked upright again. “Sarge?” Fear rang as he turned back to his boss.

Greg’s face twisted in a grimace of pain as his core fought to incorporate the new blood _connections_. Not just Spike, he could feel it. Wordy, too. Though for some reason, it felt like more than just two connections… “Give me a minute here,” he managed, letting himself collapse down on the other bed in the room. He panted, thinking a moment, then asked, _“Riesci a capirmi?”_

Spike jerked in surprise. _“Sí, Sarge.”_ Awe flickered across his face. “You…you gave me back _mio italiano_ , too?”

“Sure sounds like it, Spike,” Lou teased. His eyes shifted down to their unconscious teammate and he cringed. “Let’s get Wordy to the hospital.”

“Copy that,” their Boss agreed, staggering back to his feet; he only made it two steps before nearly collapsing again.

Ed swooped in to catch him. “Spike, get his other side,” the team leader ordered. “Giles, make yourself useful and get Word outta here.”

Roy bristled, but the Auror let out a rusty chuckle. “Copy that, Auror Lane,” he acknowledged, saluting before he flourished his wand and levitated the unconscious man off the bed.

“We are gonna have a long, long talk,” Lane hissed in Parker’s ear as he helped the other man down the stairs. A tired lion-like rumble was his only reply.

* * * * *

Auror Detective Giles Onasi slumped against the inside of his front door, still shaking. The first and second worst days of his life, re-lived all over again. He wasn’t sure what was his third worst day – the day he’d almost lost Roy or the day he’d found Dustil _alive_ …in Team One’s interrogation room and under arrest on multiple counts of using an Unforgivable. Sliding down to the floor, Onasi struggled to hold in the raw emotions coursing through his body.

A strangled sob broke free. Morgana. Dustil. Revan. Brian. Nearly Roy as well. How many more people did he have to lose? How much longer did he have to _live_ without those he loved and cared for? He stole a longing glance down at his gun and froze. All the ripped, torn bits of his soul cried out for an end. For the pain to _stop_.

Trembling, the detective worked the weapon free and racked the slide. Then he stared down at the sleek weapon, unable to take that final step, but unable to release his grip on his black hope of salvation. The trembling increased, the two sides of his mind battling for control; his hand shook, but the fingers didn’t open. He wanted it all to _stop_ , but…

_“Don’t leave me alone!”_ he’d begged his dying partner.

And Roy hadn’t. Parker had saved him, but a sliver of Giles believed _Roy_ had wanted to live, thus enabling that last second miracle. How could _he_ leave his partner behind, bewildered and grieving? But how could he keep going now that they knew _everything_? Knew how pathetic and weak their magical backup _truly_ was.

A heavy sigh came from his right and someone knelt beside him, gently prying the gun away. Professional hands removed the magazine and racked the slide to eject the round. The grieving man lifted his head, numb as he stared up at blond hair and sympathetic blue eyes.

“How did you get in?”

The other quirked a half-grin. “Asked Simmons if he had a key to your back door.”

Sam Braddock set the empty gun down on Onasi’s kitchen table and tugged a chair over to sit at an angle to Giles’ slumped position. Once the chair was positioned, the blond plopped down in it and leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Heck of a day,” he mused aloud.

Onasi shot him a dirty look that went unnoticed in the dim lighting. As silence draped the room, the Auror fidgeted, waiting for the questions, the accusations. And confused when they didn’t come. Finally he asked, “How are they?”

One shoulder lifted in a shrug. “Spike’s fine. They healed Wordy’s leg and they’re keeping him overnight for observation. Something about his magical core. Sarge insisted on walking out under his own steam; I think Ed was gonna have a little _chat_ with him, if you know what I mean. Case is wrapped up, so those profilers will be heading home in the morning; their Unit Chief promised to keep the whole ‘magical serial killer’ thing under wraps.” Hooded blue eyes turned. “Looks like it all worked out.”

_For everyone except you._ It wasn’t said, but the observation hung between the two men nonetheless. Shivering, Giles huddled in on himself, doing his best to keep from throwing any longing glances at the empty gun. Somehow he didn’t think he was doing a very good job of it.

“I was nine when my sister died.”

The Auror froze.

“We were walking to the park, stopped at a crosswalk, and this car jumped the curb and hit her.” Old sorrow rang. “Sent her flying and I remember looking over at her and wondering…why is she barefoot?” A swallow. “Then I looked down and saw her sandals. She’d been knocked right out of them.”

Onasi stared up at the other man, unable to comprehend why Braddock would share something like that with _him_.

Clearing his throat, Sam continued. “Right before I joined the SRU, I was involved in a friendly fire incident in the Squib Squad.”

“I remember,” Giles breathed.

A sardonic grimace. “Right, you were already our liaison when I got snatched by my old unit.” One shoulder lifted in a shrug. “You ever hear the whole story?”

“You…shot someone?” Giles offered tentatively.

Blue locked with brown. “You could say that.” Sam hesitated for an instant. “I _shot_ my _best friend_ with a fifty-cal. You don’t survive that, Giles; I killed him instantly. At least, for you, _you_ didn’t do the actual kill.” The sniper leaned forward, gaze intent. “You think I didn’t consider it? Look at my gun _just_ like you did? Sure I did, even after I joined Team One. But I gotta tell you, Giles; you do it and Sarge’ll drag you outta the underworld just so he and Roy can rip you to _shreds_. Then they’ll dust you off and you’ll probably end up sleeping on Roy’s couch for a year.”

Onasi barked a laugh, unable to help it.

“Face it, tough guy, you’re stuck with us. And we’re stuck with you; you think any _other_ wizard is gonna wanna be our liaison after we had two die on us and the third turned out to be a homicidal maniac?”

Another laugh broke free, hoarse and rusty.

“Now come on, you’re coming home with me.” Sam stood up, reaching down to haul the wizard to his feet. “We’re going to get drop-dead drunk and watch action-flicks until the sun comes up. Then we can start pretending today never happened.”

Giles thought about protesting, but… How many times, at the end of a hard day, had Brian dropped by his office, leaning in and declaring it a good night to get drunk? “Can we have one drink…” He stopped, fumbling for words.

“For everyone we’ve lost?” Sam finished. “Giles, _that’s_ who they’re _all_ for.”

* * * * *

The wizard was of average height, with a rather solid build. Brown hair fell to just above his shoulders, a forestry hue that darkened at the point of each ‘spike’ in the man’s hair. Blue eyes regarded a small, humble house where two men were locking up, the blond already teasing the other out of his brooding. Jealousy and no small amount of wistful regret gleamed, but the wizard never twitched; instead he tugged up his black hood with its silver rune trim and turned to walk away.

Almost instantly, he halted as black leather boots entered his line of vision; his head came up to meet fierce eyes just as blue as his own, if two shades darker. Raven black hair framed wide ears and ended just above a red neckerchief. The rage in the ancient warlock’s face stood out, living wrath prepared to strike the perceived offender down. Wrath gathered, then faltered as Merlin’s jaw dropped.

“You.”

A trembling chin lifted. “Me.”

_~ Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd cut. I hope everyone's enjoyed the latest two-parter story and that ya'll had just as much fun reading as I had writing. Now, as always, I adore and treasure every comment that comes my way, so please read and comment.
> 
> Moving on, our next story "A Grief Observed", will start Friday, March 6th, 2020.
> 
> See You on the Battlefield!
> 
> RL Note: Oh, how God has a sense of humor. Not with work (yet), but this weekend, I got a summons to jury duty for later in this month. Which, ya know, no one's thrilled about, but it is our civic duty if our name comes up. So, I sighed, gritted my teeth, and prepared to hunt down whatever info I needed to take the day (or days) off work for this. Then, I'm filling out the pre-jury duty questionnaire and one of the first questions was: Are you a resident of Dallas County? Stared at it quizzically, then I checked my voter registration card. Lo and behold, I'm _not_ a resident of Dallas County, I'm a resident of _Collin County_. So, happy day, no jury duty for _moi_. But my address is right on the border, so the lady at the courthouse told me this might happen again. Well, unless it happens real soon, I doubt it, 'cause I'm planning to move and that address will probably be fairly solidly in Collin County. Now I'm hoping I don't check my mail and find an identical postcard for Collin County jury duty.


End file.
